


Just a little bit, just enough

by lemon_meringue



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Hair Pulling Kink, Light Dom/sub, Light Pain Play, M/M, Miscommunication, Multiple Orgasms, Not Canon Compliant, Peter's anxiety (which is not explicitly discussed), Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Spanking, author's first attempt at real intentional angst, no officer i've never seen a beta before in my life, overuse of italics and expletives and commas bc it's me, the avengers are all alive and live in the tower bc I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_meringue/pseuds/lemon_meringue
Summary: So somewhere in between devastation, uncertainty, fear and disconcertment—Peter settles.Alternatively:Tony pulls.(Peter lets him.)(Peter wants him to.)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 128
Kudos: 458
Collections: Marvel(ous)Universe





	1. in cosmic cobalt blue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jealousy is Ugly (Except When It's Not)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491998) by [YAdds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YAdds/pseuds/YAdds). 



> Inspired by ^^ (which is 10/10 and you should read) and written w/ permission. I don’t even personally /have/ any pain kinks but somehow this is still super self-indulgent. 
> 
> Also: I. cannot write angst. This was a nice attempt/practice, so if the bullshit is Bullshit and goes on for ages, that’s why babes. Don’t let the length or the angst attempt fool you, though: this still amounts pure sin. Just. Completely depraved smut, folks. Hope you like it anyways <3
> 
> More detailed/kind of spoiler-y content notes/warnings for the entirety of the fic in end note of chapter one, if you’d like that.
> 
> p.s. this is *barely* edited i'm sorry in advance

“You stuck?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’ve been staring at that same screen for thirty minutes, kid.” 

“I’ve almost got it. You’re distracting me,” Peter snarks, not looking away from the hologram he's studying. He bites his cheek so Tony, across the lab and grinning fondly, doesn’t see him looking amused. 

Peter would like to think he’s pretty smart. 

Not in a conceited way, of course. But he’s over two semesters (in terms of credits) ahead of most other juniors at Columbia University. He built his own web-slingers, web fluid, and spider-man suit (who cares if the suit itself was just sweats?) when he was fourteen. He works in _Tony freakin’ Stark’s_ lab multiple times a week. 

He’s pretty smart. 

But he’s been struggling with this last bit. 

The shrink-to-fit aspect of his suit is broken. He’d had to put it on mid-fight with the Villain Of The Week—whatever his name was. A dude with a chameleon-like tail (inconvenient as hell, by the way, considering the name "Chameleon" is already taken, though Peter did get some good one-liners out of that), which was wicked fast and versatile, and had wrapped around Peter’s torso as he was engaging his suit. The barbed tail tore up the whole thing pretty badly and completely short circuited the shrink-to-fit program. 

So for the last few days, Peter’s been trying to repair the entire suit. 

The rips were... Well. The suit was more like tattered shreds of what it had been. With Tony’s tech Peter was able to patch them up seamlessly, but it was a lot. Mr. Stark had freaked out just a little bit when Peter showed him the damaged suit, and somehow explaining that the rips were torn from the inside out didn’t help calm the man.

_(“Chrissake, Pete, what happened? You look like you went through a blender!”_

_“I’m fine, Mr. Stark. He barely scratched me.”_

_“‘Barely scratched me’ he says. Kid, your suit is almost in three different pieces.”_

_“The tears came from the inside, okay, it’s not like he cut through it to get me.”_

_“What do you mean the_ inside _?! What are you, a werespider? Ripping your clothes off during a transformation?”)_

~~(No, Peter does not have any thoughts about gladly allowing someone else to ‘rip his clothes off’ for him.)~~

Now on his third day of working (hour 52, minute… what is it? 3,138?), Peter has gotten everything in right working order.

Everything except the shrink-to-fit. 

He’s more or less fixed it, but every time he tries to engage the suit, it blows up and stretches _further_ than the baggy onesie of its resting state before actually shrinking to skin tight. Of course, if Tony was fixing it for him, it would’ve been completely repaired an hour after he first brought it in. 

(Or, more likely, Peter would’ve had a brand new suit within that hour.)

Except Peter and Tony have a system. Peter can ask all the questions he needs and request all the help he might want, but he does the work himself.

He goes through his own programs, he codes his own web patterns, calibrates his own mechanics. The days of doing his pre-calc homework on a cleared desk and messing around with his web shooters or formula while Mr. Stark did the heavy lifting on his suit are—not entirely gone, per se, but a thing of the past. 

Yeah, Peter still does homework in the lab. More often than not, the things occupying his time and attention are still Tony’s old tech and pieces of machinery that Mr. Stark himself is making. 

The spider suit, however, is essentially Peter’s responsibility now. He’s not fifteen anymore. He’s not a child who needs his mentor to do the real work for him. 

It’d been his own will and decision, considering Tony’s love language is doing any and everything for literally anyone, but Mr. Stark respects his desire to be in charge of his own suit. Mostly. 

Another thirty minutes after their short interaction, though, and Peter wishes the man would take pity on him.

He’d honestly prefer it at this point if the billionaire would just playfully, well-meaningly steal the suit away in true Tony fashion, not giving Peter a chance to argue (which he would have to, for the sake of pride, but doesn’t actually want to), do whatever little thing it must be that the younger is missing while wearing a smug smirk and hand it back with a clever quip about ‘still having it’ that would make Peter hide a blush. 

(So what if he has certain feelings about Mr. Stark? Who the hell _doesn’t_? It’s not like it means anything. Obviously.)

With a tired frown, he drops the screwdriver from one hand and swipes his other palm through the air, not dismissing the hologram blueprints but spinning them away from himself and groaning. 

Tony chuckles lightly from his spot a few desks and machines away. He flips up his welding helmet already grinning, hands covered in thick, heavy duty gloves—the kind with the underside textured by rubber bumps for grip.

(Once, Tony had run the gloves up and down Peter’s arms while he was wearing his spider suit, to show Peter how the material repelled any outside friction and adhesion, perfect for keeping the younger “as slippery and spider...-y and hard to catch as possible”. The bumps slid right over his arms without catching, but made his entire body erupt in shivers, a full shudder shaking him and making him hot all over.)

(Or maybe that was just Tony, standing too close behind him, face almost in the crook of Peter’s neck as he leaned forward, smirking and saying things Peter couldn’t even hear, too overwhelmed by the sensations and the closeness.)

“Still stumped?” The man offers, smiling brightly but gently. Peter nods and sighs. 

“You got me. I can’t figure out where I’m going wrong. I’ve been staring at this code for hours. Days, actually.” The younger mumbles.

He’s more than a little worn out. Tony just smiles and shrugs, spinning in his chair to face Peter a little more. ~~And god, this angle does fucking incredible things for the man’s jawline. Fucking~~ ~~_incredible_ ~~ ~~things.~~

“Therein lies your problem, young buck. You need a break. Give it a second, relax, then look at it with fresh eyes.” 

Peter snorts. “You never take breaks. Like, ever.” 

“ _Hey now_. Do as I say, not as I do, all that wise shit. We’re not talking about me. Stay focused.” Tony snarks. He waves his torch dismissively, the flame low. 

Peter giggles and shakes his head. But he does push himself away from the desk, reaching hands above his head and stretching. His arms bend as he twists and rotates his shoulders, feeling his muscles release the tautness and tension from not moving for so long. 

(He knows he imagines the way Tony watches him. The way the older man’s eyes get a little lidded. How he swallows audibly to Peter’s enhanced hearing, wets his lips and looks pointedly back to his work station the moment Peter turns minutely towards him. It’s all in Peter’s head. _Just his imagination_.)

“Yeah, okay. When was the last time you took a break when you were trying to solve something? Twelve years ago? No, better question: When was the last time you stayed up for three days straight working?" Peter pauses. "Last week?"

He catches a wad of paper that Tony throws at him, laughing. The older man gets up and turns off his torch. 

“Alright, alright, rub it in, kid. Rub it in.”

"You don't invent new elements and master thermonuclear astrophysics overnight by taking graciously scheduled breaks," Peter adds more quietly. His tone might be a little more than a little reverent. Tony won't call him on it. 

"You've made your point. I think we can both agree that I'm not the poster child for healthy habits." Is the response he gets instead. Tony shakes out his shoulders as he walks to the other's desk and leans over, one hand behind Peter’s chair, the other braced on the table.

Peter can smell his cologne when he gets close.

Not that he couldn’t smell it before, but it’s so much stronger when the man’s chest is almost touching his shoulder. It’s not a musk. Masculine, yes, but it’s not verging on gross or unkept, despite the way the scent is weighed a little with sweat and engine oil. Earthy yet not overwhelming, like maple wood or evergreens, and something minty, maybe, that just _smells_ like cold.

It fits, doesn’t it? As cool and suave as Tony is, of course he’d have that smell. Fresh and crisp but still thick and heavy. Filling. ~~Peter wants to drown in it.~~

“Show me where you need help.” 

(No, the younger absolutely does not imagine guiding Tony’s one hand off the lab table, tugging the glove off and leading the palm into his lap, where his traitorous dick, already interested just by closeness and Mr. Stark’s cologne, would _love_ to be _helped out_. He does not imagine such a thing. That would be inappropriate.)

Peter nods, brain not quite working anymore. He reaches out, swiping his hand to pull the hologram back to them, zooming into the area of the blueprints that he thinks he’s messing up in. 

“I, uh. I’m pretty sure it’s some- somewhere in here,” he gestures between two lines of code on the separate, smaller hologram that Tony pulls up. Tony hums, reading it over. 

Almost subconsciously, his hand drifts from the back of Peter’s chair to the younger man’s head. 

He does it all the time.

It’s one of the things Peter loves and hates simultaneously, how natural and easy it is for Tony’s hands to find their way to his hair or the back of his neck, even his shoulders. His fingers gently petting and combing through the chestnut brown mess, giving grounding squeezes to his perpetually tense muscles. 

Peter would be convinced that Tony doesn’t even realize he’s doing it were it not for the offhand comments he sometimes makes. About Peter’s hair defying physics for being “so goddamn fluffy” after spending hours under a spandex cap. The softly whispered, “Relax, kid,” when he distractedly rubs Peter’s back, oblivious to the fact that his gentle touches are the exact reason Peter is _not_ relaxed. 

This time, Tony doesn’t quietly murmur quips or soothing comments. This time, he’s giving Peter a lesson on what to look for and how to find it, because of course after a few seconds he already found the mistake. _Of course_. 

(It's a genius thing.)

And this time, the calloused hand rising up to pet his hair is still covered by a heavy duty glove, which Peter flinches away from (because _gross_ , Mr. Stark, there’s probably grease or something all over that), turning to face Tony. 

His movement causes Tony to do the same and look at the younger man, putting them face to face—not even six inches apart (which is really, _really_ not far apart at all, holy shit) just as the glove’s rubber ridges and texture snag in Peter’s hair. 

Tony doesn’t realize until too late and he’s already petting downwards, tugging Peter’s hair with his hand. 

So their faces are very, very, _horribly_ close together when Peter fucking _moans_. 

He _moans_ and he moans _loud_. 

Peter’s eyes slip shut and his head tilts back on instinct to release some of the force of the pull, but his mouth falls open. His cheeks flush and a downright _pornographic_ sound escapes loudly from his lips because it feels _good_. 

_Oh fuck,_ it feels so good.

It hurts. It is—it _is_ painful, but it feels good. It’s a good hurt? The sting and the sudden burst of pain, when Peter was already starting to feel floaty, exhausted from how long he’s been trying to fix his suit and dizzy with proximity to Mr. Stark—it goes straight between his legs.

His senses spike. Everything launches from lethargic to bright and blaring and Peter can’t stop the reaction. He moans and he can feel the violent twitch of his cock, which, _wow_ , could not _possibly_ have worse timing.

It runs down his neck and uses his spine like a superhighway for sensation, going to his groin and the pit of his stomach and his thighs, pooling, hot, a sizzling feeling, not a calm or steady wash but something alive and fiery and for a few blissful seconds it turns his brain to total mush.

Then, like an ill-fated frisbee, reality catches up with him fast and sudden, and bludgeons him out of the trance. 

Peter’s eyes snap open, a blurry sheen over his vision distantly telling him that there are _tears_ there now. The sight he’s greeted with makes the warm blush on his cheeks turn scarlet, his entire body lighting on fire. 

(If only he could literally catch fire right now, that would be preferable.) 

(Extremely preferable.)

Tony is staring at him. 

Tony is just _staring_ at him. 

Oh shit, oh _shit_ , what did Peter just _do_?!

The older man’s chocolate brown eyes are so wide that Peter can see the entirety of his irises (and they’re so close, he can see the different shades, little streaks of caramel amidst coffee and hickory).

Tony’s mouth is gaping, perfect lips and pearly whites, his gloved hand still on the back of Peter’s neck. His cheeks are even tinted pink, and he’s just fucking _staring_ , and Peter doesn’t know what to do or say and now he’s panicking so he just stumbles over the words as he tries to speak. 

“S-sorry, I’m sorry, that- um, that hurt more than I- than- I’m sorry it’s fine though, sorry- I didn’t-” 

“Yeah, I- yeah,” Tony graciously cuts him off. “Ah, whoops?” He huffs an attempt at a casual laugh. “You’re fine, happens to the best of us. Sorry kiddo, should’ve been more careful there.” He looks anywhere except for Peter and removes his glove carefully. Peter is speechless as he waits for the man to disentangle them. 

“Keep it up, Pete, you’ve almost got it.” Tony adds, not looking at the younger again and patting the table. 

Peter is frozen.

He’s just frozen, unable to speak or even blink as he watches Tony go sit down. 

_Fuck_. 

_Fuck fuck fuck_. Just— _fuck_.

What the hell just happened? He- he didn’t- he did _not_ , he just— 

Peter can’t think anymore. His brain does not compute. He also is struggling to breathe, and none of those things are helping him from stopping the way he’s gaping like a cherry-red fish at Mr. Stark. 

He might be having a panic attack, actually, because his stomach is up in his throat and his lungs are caving in and it feels like the nervous butterflies inside him fucking exploded and are about to cause him heart failure. Every additional second that he processes what just went down is a new torture. 

The horror at himself, mortification at what just happened, feels like actual, physical wet clay is packing up inside him and somehow also making him hollow. 

He just _moaned_ as if he was coming in his pants (which he almost fucking _did_ ) hand's length away from Mr. Stark’s face because the man accidentally _pulled his hair_. 

(Even as a prepubescent kid, imitating sex sounds for laughs—where more obscene was funnier—he’d never made a sound like that. _Jesus_.)

God, fuck, why did it feel so _good_ ? It felt so, _so_ good, but it hurt? It was painful, truthfully, it was. It stung and his head is kind of throbbing now and it wasn’t comfortable at all but it was still _good._

It sent a thrill through his entire body. It was a spike, like a shot of pure sexual adrenaline. 

It turned him on _so much_. 

It _shouldn’t have_.

After a few seconds (or maybe it’s been minutes) of Peter still staring stunned at Tony, he finally manages to get himself to look away. 

_Fuck_. 

Peter wants to disappear. 

Any time the floor wants to swallow him whole, that would be great. God, oh god, mark that down on the list of worst things he has ever done. File that under things that will keep him up at night for the rest of his life.

What is _wrong_ with him?

Tony just touched him, barely touched him at that. Scratch that, Tony _accidentally harmed_ him. That was _pain_ , it shouldn’t have felt good. _Why_ did it feel good?! That can’t be normal. Especially for people like Peter, who get into fights and get hurt on the regular—pain isn’t supposed to feel _good_.

He keeps looking over at Mr. Stark, nervous and still flushed and not sure what he’s waiting for. Tony doesn’t look at him, though. Tony doesn’t look in his direction, even, and he doesn’t say anything else. 

While Peter stews in crippling humiliation and regret, Tony completely ignores him.

It’s not like the man is usually particularly chatty or anything. Sure they joke, they have longer, pointless conversations (like _friends_ ) when circumstance allows, and they can talk shop for _hours_. When they’re both in the lab, doing their respective work, there isn’t a whole lot of talking—but it's never _nothing_. 

And Tony doesn’t say anything at _all_. For the next three hours he doesn’t speak a word to Peter.

Typically Mr. Stark wouldn’t hesitate to get up and show Peter what he’s working with, especially when Peter obviously doesn’t make any progress with his suit, but the man doesn’t come near him, doesn’t get up at all, doesn’t even _look_ at him.

Peter knows so, because he can’t _stop_ looking at Tony. 

The most attention he gets is a few hours later when he finally calls it quits (he can forget trying to fix his suit for the foreseeable future—there’s no way he can focus now) and Tony nods, hums at him in response to Peter’s squeaked out, “Bye, Mr. Stark!” 

The younger man can’t focus.

He trips leaving the lab, though it looks like Tony misses that (thankfully), he slips on his way out of the elevator, he stumbles as he makes his way through the building. He lives in this tower and it’s still a miracle he makes it to his room without actually causing a disaster. 

All he can think about is why the hell it felt good. Why it felt good to feel pain like that. Why it had to happen in front of _Mr. Stark_. 

Peter is fucking _confused_. He’s verging on scared, actually, because getting beat up on the regular by Bad Guys is a hobby of his, and it’s never felt _good_ to be _hurt_ before. He’s never gotten turned on by being tossed into next week.

Is there something wrong with him? There has to be something wrong with him. 

Is that why he does it? Oh god, is that why Peter wants to be Spider-Man so badly? So he can make a habit of getting beat up by petty criminals?! 

He freezes in his doorway and fists his shirt collar, trying to calm down. It’s a good thing there aren’t any other Avengers around. If any of them saw him like this he would blurt out what occurred in the lab and then he’d never have another moment of peace in his life. 

**“Peter, do you require assistance?”** Friday asks. He shakes his head quickly and pushes himself off the wall, propelling into his bedroom, barely controlling his strength so he doesn’t break the door when he closes it. 

“No thank you, I’m fine, Friday, just a little headache. It’s already passed, I’m ok,” he rambles. 

No, he thinks. This thing, whatever the hell that was, it’s not why he’s Spider-Man. He's Spider-Man because he wants to help people. Having villains attacking him all the time, throwing him through buildings, breaking his bones, shooting him—that’s never felt good. 

It’s got to be something else. Something else that’s wrong with him. 

Maybe he’s sick? He must be sick. Or maybe it's just Mr. Stark? 

And Mr. Stark— _fuck_. 

Mr. Stark totally freaked out. He’s freaked out. It took a whopping five seconds for Peter to make things so awkward and uncomfortable between them, he probably thinks Peter is gross and weird now, making a sound like _that_ in front of his _mentor_.

No, no no no, he must think Peter is _so_ fucking weird, and of course he does! Who moans like they’re starring in a porno when they’re in _pain?!_ Tony must think he’s a freak now—there really are not a lot of ways to mistake a sound like that.

Peter must be so messed up, shit, _what is wrong with him_? He groans aloud and rubs at his face as if he could claw the red stain of shame off his skin. 

Collapsing on his bed and face-planting into the pillow has never felt as correct as it does now.

He’s in a room that Tony set up for him, on Tony’s own floor. Opposite ends of the floor, with halls and spacious living rooms and four different offices between them, but the same floor nonetheless. 

Ever since the beginning of Peter’s sophomore year at Colombia, he’s been living at the Avengers tower. Easier to train, easier to team build, and where May's apartment in Forest Hills is a nearly half hour drive from school, the tower is less than twenty minutes, so there's a small improvement (but improvement nonetheless) in commute. Of course Mr. Stark let Peter stay on his own personal floor rather than giving the younger his own or putting him on the communal avengers level.

It doesn’t matter whether Peter has been obvious or subtle about his adoration of the man—everyone knows. He’s said it to Tony himself. 

(Scratch that. _Says_ , because he does it often) 

(Though, Mr. Stark likes to shake it off and chalk it up to hero worship that will “fade the longer you’re around me, you’ll see” ~~even though Peter’s completely in love with him and has been since he was nineteen~~.)

Of course Tony, one of the kindest people ever, let Peter stay on his floor. Of course he gave Peter a huge room and decked it out in everything the younger could want or need, of _course_ the bed is the most comfortable thing in the world and each sheet and blanket has insanely high thread counts that lull Peter’s senses into deep sleep and knock him out like a light even on the worst of nights.

Except for _this_ night, _of course_ , because the universe wants Peter to suffer.

He kicks his shoes and pants away and burrows under the luxury comforter.

Questions and raging embarrassment cling to him, making him wonder what happened to him. Why he reacted like that. He wishes he was like Dr. Strange, so maybe he could use the time stone to take back and change what just happened. 

(Who cares if he knows that’s not how time travel works. He’s beyond ashamed right now. He’s bordering _afraid_ and just wants someone to tell him he’s not a freak.)

He wants to believe Tony will get over it (the man has like five sex tapes out, surely this won’t be that scarring to him), that they can both move on and pretend it never happened; but there’s something icky and heavy just under his lungs that tells him that’s not going to happen. 

The way Mr. Stark looked at him, unreadable but so obviously taken aback—and then pretended Peter didn’t exist for the next three hours… he burrows his face into plushness and counts the seconds to breathe to.

Unconsciousness doesn't find him until around four in the morning, after he lies awake in the dark, hugging his pillow and refusing to let the burning in his eyes turn to real tears. Even then his sleep is fitful, distraught. 

He wakes up feeling slimy inside. The hot shower does little to help. 

#### * * * 

Peter tries to get over it. 

He really, really does. 

He tries moving on, shoving it under the bed with the rest of the things he can’t stand to think about and forgetting it.

He can’t though. 

The confusion haunts him almost more than the embarrassment. 

(And boy, are “confused” and “embarrassed” the understatements of the year.)

The morning after (no, nope, that’s wrong. That’s a bad way to phrase that) is a disaster. Tony is in the kitchen with a cup of coffee when Peter wakes up, so he puts his best brave face on—admittedly not… the bravest brave face in the world—and chirps a greeting. 

Or he _tries_ to chirp a greeting. It’s more of a whimpered, pitiful “good morning” that makes him flush and avoid eye contact. But he sees Tony acknowledge him. He sees Tony take that deep breath, close his eyes and shake his head, shoot a half grin in Peter’s direction and mutter, “morning, kid.” 

It’s not the usual enthusiasm. It’s not even regular awkward. 

If Peter was just anxious and fretting before then he knows for sure after that. Tony thinks he’s a freak. He makes _Tony Stark uncomfortable_ just by being in the same room as the man. His eyes start to sting realizing it, so he doesn’t give Tony the chance to accidentally see his face, and tries to spare the man ~~he adores so much~~ any added discomfort by keeping a distance. 

He wishes he hadn’t screwed up so bad. 

The next three weeks go the exact same way. 

Every single day is a horrible, screaming reminder that Peter must be some sort of freak, that maybe he’s _sick_ , and that he royally messed up by dragging Tony into it. He did a panicked internet search that first day after and it just made him feel worse. Each article and blog post he read talked about how it was nothing to be ashamed of, but everything always mentioned that it ( _pain kinks,_ that is, which just doesn't sound correct) can develop because of a _lack_ of excitement, and there was great emphasis on consent. All of which did nothing to calm Peter down or reassure him.

Of all the things he's lacked in his lifetime, "excitement" ~~_pain_ ~~ has _never_ been one of them. Why would he, who gets beat up on a regular basis and has more than enough experience with virtually every kind of pain, ever enjoy being _hurt?_ It just doesn't add up. It's not _right._ And he certainly did _not_ have any kind of consent from Mr. Stark before making an innocent slip of the hand into something grossly sexual. 

That's the biggest thing. The thing that won't leave him alone. It's not that Peter has this... _thing._ It's that he unwillingly exposed Mr. Stark to it— _forced_ it on Tony. Tony, who (despite having a solid 20% of his humor and 33% of his defensive deflection made up of flirting with everything that moves, including Peter) has never been anything but mentorly to Peter. Tony, who was the closest thing Peter had to a father-figure when he was fourteen and new to vigilante heroism. 

And Peter... Peter _ruined_ everything. 

He tries to spend as much time as he can at school. When he’s in classes or hanging out at the library doing homework (and he hasn’t been there since picking up his books, because the resources in literally any room at the tower blow even Colombia away, but he’d really rather not be at the tower now) he can distract himself with assignments and lectures. 

Course work—even the load he’s taking—only soaks up so much time, though. 

So when he’s not hiding at school or hiding in his room or hiding with friends or hiding at May’s, Peter patrols. 

(It takes him another day after The Incident to finish his suit. Wanting to die every time he’s in the same room as Tony is a good motivator to get back out, but the new existential crisis he’s wrangling with makes it hard to think about anything else, so the overwhelming outside factors kind of cancel each other and he eventually figures out the broken shrink-to-fit.)

(It was in the second line of code. He kept missing it because he was looking for damage-inflicted errors, but that part was so messed up that he’d rewritten it himself the very first night and the mistake turned out to be nothing more than a typo. Which is. Infuriating beyond imagination, but at least it’s done now.)

After his suit is up and running at max capacity again, he takes to patrolling every minute that he can without Karen tattling to Friday about his health. Anything to keep his mind off wondering what’s wrong with him. Anything to stop him from thinking about how such a comparatively little thing messed up a relationship like his and Tony’s so bad, so fast. 

It’s like a spiral. That one screwed up moment sends him swirling out of loop—the more he thinks about it, the more horrible he feels about himself, and somehow that one devastatingly awkward incident completely fucks him over. He really, really, _really_ tries to get over it. To chalk it up to Parker luck and make himself believe that with Tony’s versatile past and all they’ve been through, the man would move on too—but he can’t do it.

Tony barely speaks to him. He never looks at him. Tony probably _hates_ him now. Like he’s some sick, screwed up pervert or something.

When the Avengers train together, Tony keeps his distance. Peter was honestly hoping that the man would have to at least acknowledge his presence, but he doesn’t. He never looks in Peter’s direction, and he and Steve run the team through so intensely that there’s no time or energy to spare for anyone to notice.

(“We have to be ready for anything,” Steve says. There are simulations, drones, Iron Man suits programmed to fight them. They fight each other. They teach each other new moves. The team splits up into groups. They play glorified tag and paintball and capture the flag and Peter is never on the same team as Tony, where before, that man would make a whole scene out of obnoxiously claiming Peter for his side every single time they trained. 

Peter spars one-on-one with everyone except Mr. Stark.

Natasha kicks his ass and calls him out on being distracted, but he can tell she’s actually worried. Clint tells him to take some laps around the gym and clear his head. Sam asks if he’s feeling okay. Bucky gives him that _look_. Thor, the few times he’s on Earth, ask him if he needs a break from his “midguardian responsibilities”. Rhodey says he needs to focus, he’s off his game. Dr. Banner, during Peter’s physical in the lab, gently tells him he seems off. The others give him knowing expressions that he acts like he doesn’t see.

Steve calls off the match after he manages to get Peter in a headlock for the fifth time and tells him to take a break. Puts a hand on his shoulder and asks him if something’s wrong.

He makes excuses. No one believes him. Tony pointedly pretends not to hear. 

  
They don’t talk about it.)

Peter doesn’t sleep much. He feels physically nauseous with anxiety and shame whenever he thinks about it all, but with his metabolism, it’s like he hits a mark (hypoglycemia, maybe) after not eating for so long and snaps and binges everything he can get his hands on. 

None of it is healthy. He knows that. He knows that lying in bed for two hours in discomfiture and maelstrom then sleeping fitfully for four isn’t good. He knows that not eating for two days and then consuming six thousand calories in a handful of hours is _really_ not good. 

He knows that wallowing in regret and loathing and overwhelming confusion every minute that he’s not actively submerged in something else is really, _really_ not good. 

But how can he stop?

Maybe if it was someone else, a different place, a different context, he could have eventually (very, _painfully_ awkwardly) laughed it off. Done some non-problematic self evaluation and moved on. 

_Tony_ , though. It had to be Tony. It had to be when Tony was being _affectionate_ towards him. Peter had to moan like he was getting paid for it, inches away from his mentor’s face, and see that _look_ (indescribable blankness that can only mean a million things are going on in Mr. Stark’s head), and then—

Suddenly he’s number one on Tony’s Ignore At All Costs list, and Mr. Stark has started drinking a lot more again (constantly, taking whiskey and brandy every time he does eat and replacing other meals entirely with the alcohol), and it’s Peter’s fault, and he doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with himself. 

He’s _gross_. He’s a _freak_. 

In three weeks he still _can’t figure it out_. 

So somewhere in between devastation, uncertainty, fear and disconcertment—Peter settles. 

Honestly, after nearly a month, he’s almost used to it. He’s almost well adjusted and coping with his terrible coping mechanisms. Despite being so afraid and unsettled by himself, as long as he’s causing as little discomfort as possible to Tony, he’ll manage. 

Until Mysterio’s ass shows back up. 

In all fairness, the guy isn’t usually a problem for Peter. The hero’s spider sense _(“May, please, I’m begging you to stop calling it my ‘Peter tingle’.”)_ lets him see through the illusions, so the only fight is with the physical attacks of the guy’s drones. 

The electric ones are the worst. Peter hates getting shocked. It's the most discombobulating thing. 

On top of _everything else_ he’s got going on, Mysterio must’ve figured that little fun fact out, because all of them are electric this time. 

“Fried spider, anybody?” The guy laughs to himself after the hundredth time Peter gets knocked off his path, missing the ledge he’d been aiming for when he feels the fiery electricity zapping through him. He shoots a web out at the last minute and it jerks him around, a painful whiplash and he takes a minute to just hang there, clinging to his thread, letting his enhanced healing take care of the strained ligaments. 

“You know, you’re really getting on my nerves today, man.” Peter grumbles, catching his breath. Mysterio chuckles. It's an annoying sound.

“Bet if I get you a couple more times, you won’t have any nerves left.” He muses. Peter rolls his eyes under the mask. Maybe he should add a feature that’ll show him rolling his eyes through the suit. 

“Now that’s just mean.” He catches one of the drones flying past him and wrenches it backwards, ducking as it comes flying at him and knocks out another that had been coming up behind him. 

No time for victory, no rest for the wicked, etcetera etcetera. Another drone swings up from beside him and slams into him, five different of it’s stupid little pincers grabbing him as they fall together, stinging where they latch on to the thin skin covering his toned arms and torso.

The electricity burns like hell and his body seizes, tremors wracking him as every fiber freezes with tension. He cries out at the initial impact but loses his voice until both he and the drone crash into the ground two stories below. The bot shatters and Peter rolls away, gasping for the breath that the fall knocked out of him. 

He hasn’t eaten in two days and he slept a grand total of forty minutes last night. He also hasn’t seen a single trace of Tony in three days—which should be a relief from awkward tension, but actually just makes him feel worse. 

Not a great day to get half his life zapped out of him.

**“Peter, multiple of my safety protocols have been violated. I am now alerting Mr. Stark to the situation and your location.”** Karen says. Peter wants to argue but his throat is all closed up. Where is he, again?

“Oh, ouch, that one looked like it hurt.” Mysterio’s taunt comes from above. Peter opens his eyes (he closed them?) to see the man standing a little ways away from his feet, and stepping closer, walking around Peter’s limp body to take one knee beside him. How did he get so close? Where _was_ he? 

“Nope, too close. In the bubble. Get out.” Peter grumbles. Mysterio just laughs, reaching forward and wrapping a hand around Peter’s neck. It makes Peter's skin crawl—since the spike in senses that came with the spider-bite, he _hates_ being touched by people he doesn't know (or doesn't _like_ , for that matter). He can practically feel the honeycomb pattern and ridges of the wrinkles and pores on the man's hand, through his glove and Peter's suit. It's sickening. (That could also be the electricity.)

“Don’t be so stingy, kid. That’s not very polite.” He says. He doesn’t squeeze (yet), but when Peter tries to reach up to catch the man’s wrist and throw him off, he can barely move, twitching and too tensed up. Which. Shit. That’s not good.

Peter has super strength and super healing. But that doesn't mean he's made of stone. He still needs to _breathe._

“Now,” Mysterio begins. Peter doesn’t give him the satisfaction of panicking (visually), even when he starts to squeeze. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t really want to kill you. I kind of like this little back and forth we’ve got. Our shorthand is the highlight of my day sometimes, you know? It’s great entertainment, a wonderful pastime, but I’m not fond of losing drones by the dozens whenever you come out and play. Those are expensive as hell, you know, and-” 

He cuts off suddenly. Or, Peter cuts him off. 

The younger doesn’t know what the fuck happens. He's been in choke holds before. To be honest, though, those usually go from nonexistent to attempted instant suffocation. All he understands is that the taunting, slowly _(slowly)_ squeezing hand around his neck reaches a point, and it’s like a puzzle piece gets knocked into place, as if the pressure reaches a pinnacle, and a literal switch flips inside his throat. 

It’s not very tight. He’s not choking—in fact, his breathing is only just inhibited. But the villain above him gets to some exact, _special_ tightness, the grip reaching something perfect and terrifying and exhilarating and—

Peter moans. 

It’s nothing like it was in the lab with Tony. It’s not nearly as loud or pornographic, and for a split second, something in his mind far ahead of panic and instinct hopes that maybe it came off as a pained groan. That could have totally passed for a pained groan, right? 

Mysterio freezes.

Equally not-good. ~~Shit~~. 

His helmet disappears. Peter doesn't know why he bothers with the theatrics when there's no one else around to see and Peter can obviously sense the illusions, but the dome slowly recedes back and Mysterio's head is exposed. Peter’s seen the guy’s face before, but only rarely, and only from a distance. The only thing more unsettling than the man openly unmasking himself to the younger is the _smile_. 

“Well, that’s new.” It’s smug, _intrigued_. Peter gulps and it hurts to do so and he realizes Mysterio can feel it ( _jesus christ_ ) because the man's grin widens. 

Fuck. Oh, really, _mother_ of all fucks. This is not what he needed today. This is _so_ not what he needed today. 

The thing ahead of panic and instinct takes over. Peter’s arms might not be functioning but his legs still work. He kicks up (bless flexibility) and nails Mysterio in the shoulder, sending the man back and forcing him to release his grip. 

It’s nowhere near as strong or damaging as it could (should) be, but hey, Peter just got pumped with however many milliamps of electricity it takes to seriously disorient and enhanced person—that is, probably enough to kill an un-enhanced person—he’s allowed to be off his game. 

He rolls over and hauls himself onto his knees, trying to stand up with little assistance from his arms. Mysterio is up before he is, and starts approaching again, half grimacing in pain and half sickening smile growing wider, drones reappearing. Is the man saying something? He can't tell. He's not listening.

Peter shoots out a web and yanks on it as hard as he can, flinging himself skyward. His opponent doesn’t hesitate to follow, and another drone slams into him, knocking him through a window of one of the two buildings he’s swinging between. 

The glass shatters and Peter skids onto the floor, watching where Mysterio steps through the now empty frame. It feels like his entire body must be one massive bruise by now, burnt to a crisp and throbbing and there's definitely a shard of glass sticking out of his leg. He's woozy. (That drone shocked him _hard_.)

“Oh, no no no, _honey_ , where do you think you’re going, you little masochist?” 

Peter doesn’t know how to handle that, so he immediately represses it and decides to unpack it later. 

“Sorry fishbowl, just realized I have some stuff to do. Why don’t we call it for today, same time next week?” He coughs and only barely retains some snark. He wants to go to sleep, now. 

Drones cut him off when he tries to run, and he’s so dizzy, he webs one and tries to throw it at Mysterio but the man has plenty of time to sacrifice another bot as a shield in his defense. 

“When we’re just starting to have fun? I don’t think so,” he laughs, stalking confidently closer. Peter pulls the same move again, and it’s not actually helping a whole lot, but at least he’s putting a dent in the drone armada. Slow and steady, tortoise vs hare shit. 

(Peter would rather be the hare right now, to be honest.)

“You don’t think we were having fun before? Ouch, I’m hurt.” He says. Despite the glass, his legs are coming back a lot faster than his arms—which are twice as fast as his melted brain, but he flips and dodges one drone as it comes after him.

His spider sense is just one constant buzz of **danger danger get out of there danger**. Another bot hits him from behind before he can leap out of the way. 

This time, he actually blacks out from the electricity. It only lasts a few seconds, so he doesn’t realize he has at all until he comes to and Mysterio is stepping up beside him again, looking down like a predator to prey. 

Which. _That's_ _uncomfortable_. 

He doesn’t get the chance to make a move. And thank god, because no way would the younger have been able to fight him off again. He feels like jello. Like jello pain. Pained jello. 

Maybe more like jam. He’s a puree at this point. 

When his eyes focus again, Mysterio is gone. The sound of metal crunching fills his head, that blazing roar of fire. He groans at how loud everything has become, managing to cover his ears and curl up. 

“Oh, shit, sorry kid. Hang on, let’s get you out of here.” A voice says from above, metal clinking as Peter is scooped up into strong arms. He passes out a couple times, if only for a short while, on the flight back to the tower. 

The flight?

It takes a lot more energy than it should to open his eyes, and he’s greeted by red and gold. Iron Man red and gold. Iron Man is flying him home. 

_Tony_. 

He almost starts to cry right then and there, but not because of the fading pain, and not because he can literally feel his body sewing up torn muscles and mending strains and fractures. Not even in relief. 

_“Oh, shit, sorry kid. Hang on, let’s get you out of here.”_

That’s more than Mr. Stark has said to him in the last three weeks since the lab incident _combined_. 

But—if Tony’s here—

Oh shit. That’s right. Karen called him. 

Peter wants to crawl into himself. He was supposed to be giving Tony space, not bothering the man, not making things worse. Not forcing Tony to come and rescue him. 

Thankfully, Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything while they head back. A minute or so after they take off, the roaring of wind and too-bright light of a setting sun and Tony’s ~~intoxicating~~ smell and the smell of Peter’s blood all cut out, suddenly. Then the only thing Peter can hear is a steady drum, a heartbeat. The constant, stable pace that means it can’t be his. He doesn’t think about it. 

He wakes up again as he’s being set down on something soft. There aren't any shards of glass sticking out of his legs, his mask is carefully taken off, and then everything comes rushing back again—right, “blackout protocol”. 

(Tony installed it when he learned the extent of Peter’s sensory overload. His mask can cut out all sounds and sights and, when helpful, can play a recording of a heart beating. Something to ground Peter. He knows it’s Tony’s heart that he hears when the protocol is engaged. The man never told him, never admitted to it, but Peter knows.)

Mr. Stark isn’t there. 

Instead, it’s Steve standing in front of him, and he’s sitting on the edge of a cot in a room in medbay. Steve has his hands braced on Peter’s shoulders to hold him steady, and he’s talking, right, so Peter should probably listen. 

“-feel? Anything in dire need of attention? Friday says nothing’s broken or bleeding inside, how’s your head?”  
  


Peter groans quietly and rubs his eyes. At least his arms are moving nicely now. “‘m fine. Just gotta sleep it off, I’ll be good.” 

Steve softens, giving Peter a sympathetic smile. “Take it easy, Queens. You kind of got fried out there.” Peter nods and finds it within himself to smirk. 

“Yeah..” he breathes. Steve turns, then, grabbing a bottle of something that’s kind of a gross shade of pink. At Peter’s confusion, Cap elaborates, cautiously helping Peter wrap his hands around the bottle. 

“Basically, blended protein and nutrients. Friday says you haven’t eaten. Not much anyone can do for you now that your own healing can’t take care of, but you gotta help yourself out. Drink it. Tastes better than it looks, I promise.” He uncaps the bottle as he speaks and pops in a metal straw. Peter sighs. 

“Hope it tastes better than it smells, too.” He mumbles. Steve laughs goodnaturedly, patting Peter’s shoulders. He sits with the younger while he drinks, whether he’s making sure he drinks it or waiting to help him lay down, Peter doesn’t know. 

He’s just glad for the company. 

When he finishes the drink—which was uncomfortably thick but, in its defense, _did_ taste better than it looked or smelled, and leaves him him feeling pleasantly full despite the ache in his body—Steve gives him a bottle of water that he gratefully chugs. When he's done with the water, too, Cap helps him lean back. The man guides him by the shoulders until he lays flat on a mattress that is probably less comfortable than it feels right now. 

“Get some sleep, ok? Hope you’ll try to forgive us, but there were some sleep meds in the shake, too.” Peter doesn’t have the energy to be that upset, but he does try to play up the scandalized expression. It must work, because Steve chuckles. “I know, I’m sorry.”

Then, quieter, a little sad, “We’re worried about you, kid.”

Peter hurts in the pit of his stomach. It has nothing to do with being shocked within an inch of his life.

“‘m sorry.” 

Steve smiles softly at him and pats his knee gently, eyes squinting kindly. “It’s ok. Nothing to apologize for. Just,” he pauses, looks away before making eye contact with Peter again. He’s still soft, still gentle, but there’s the firmness Peter sees in his team leader when Cap continues, “Take care of yourself, alright? We’re all here for you, Pete. If you need to talk.”

Peter doesn’t blink because he might make tears fall out if he does, but he smiles reassuringly and nods shakily. His hands are trembling. 

“I know. Thanks, Steve.” 

Steve nods and touches his chest lightly, smiling at him before getting up. “If you need anything, Friday can get a hold of any of us.” 

Peter just nods again. His throat is closing up now, but Cap accepts it, and the door closes softly behind him. 

The soporific feeling of the sleeping medication kicking in; combined with the blanket of comfort that washes over him when it sets in that he’s at the tower now, safe, secure; and pure exhaustion all take him out pretty quickly. 

#### * * *

Peter doesn’t remember dreaming when he wakes up, but there are flashes of red and gold and his eyes are wet. He’s still in his suit, and he feels gross, damp with sweat and blood. 

**“Peter,”** Friday begins. He nods minutely and hums to show her he’s listening. **“It is currently three fifty-seven in the afternoon on Saturday. You’ve been asleep for twenty hours.”**

“Great.” He groans. There isn’t much heat to his sarcasm, though. He feels good. Gross and in desperate need of a shower, but going from hungry, exhausted, and in pain, to satiated, well-rested, and healed (probably entirely) is a nice change. 

**“I would suggest bathing and eating something high in protein, iron, and vitamin c. When you are ready, Mr. Stark would like to see you in the lab.”**

Peter nods along to her suggestions, pushing himself up and ready to get off the cot, stretch out his stiff limbs—but freezes at the mention of Tony. 

“Did-” his voice breaks, “Did he say why?” 

**“He did not. Would you like me to ask?”**

“No thanks, Friday, that’s ok. Thank you.”

Shit. Tony wants to see him? Oh god, is Mr. Stark going to yell at him? Was this the breaking point? He wouldn’t be surprised if this is what makes the man snap. When he’s been avoiding Peter so desperately, it’s no wonder that being forced to go save the younger’s ass would push him over the edge. 

**“You’re welcome.”** Friday says, promptly abandoning Peter with his thoughts. 

Ok. Time to compartmentalize. 

Item number one: shower. 

Peter feels back to normal after his miniature coma, but he takes it easy anyways. 

(No, he’s not stalling.)

He walks slowly back to his room, takes his time stripping out of the clammy, dirty suit and getting into the shower. The water is too hot at first (he did get singed yesterday) and too cold after, but he finally gets a good temperature that washes all the grime off him without boiling is already fried body. 

(He’s not stalling.)

Peter washes himself two times and shampoos twice, too (he was asleep for twenty hours, ok, he needs it), and then conditions like MJ does, leaving it in for a few minutes while he washes his face. He towels off carefully to avoid the last remaining scabs, which are healing into fresh skin even as he moves, and takes his time to redress in his most comfortable clothes. A hoodie and joggers and thick socks, unremarkable except for being expensive, soft things that Tony bought him.

_(He is not stalling.)_

He brushes his teeth for three and a half minutes (twenty hours, it’s not an excuse it’s a reason) and doesn’t eat. He doesn’t want to puke when he inevitably gets worked up over his mentor inevitably disowning him, but he does have some water. 

Which makes him realize how thirsty he is, so he takes his time to drink a few more glasses, and then goes to the bathroom, and checks his phone, and come on, he just chugged a bunch of water, he should give himself a minute and just get the guaranteed bathroom visits over with so he doesn’t go down to the lab having to pee his pants. 

( _Not. Stalling._ ) 

There aren’t enough distractions in this tower. He debates visiting the inescapable self confrontation with the fact that he had a sexual reaction to a psycho trying to kill him (what about _Mysterio_ of all people intending to _choke him to death_ got him physically turned on?), but, no. That would just make him more sick to his stomach, and then Tony wouldn't even have to say anything; being in the same room as the man would make him puke. 

“Hey Friday, is Mr. Stark still in the lab?” Tense.

**“He is, Peter. Should I alert him that you are on your way down?”**

Peter’s first instinct is to say no, don’t bother him, but then he realizes the considerate thing to do would be to warn the man, give him a moment to collect himself (get disappointed again, in case it dissolved).

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks, Friday.”

**“Not a problem.”**

Peter walks slowly to the elevator. For some reason, it feels like he’s marching towards his execution, bag on his head, wrists in cuffs and apathetic guards hauling him off. 

He drags his feet. 

Apparently Friday doesn’t get the memo that he’s ~~not stalling at all~~ taking his dear sweet time, because the elevator ride is as punctual and efficient as ever. The doors open to the lab and Peter steps out. He gulps like a sinner in a cartoon, looks around with his shaking hands stuffed in the one front sweatshirt pocket (pouch, really). 

“Um, Mr. Stark?” He calls out. 

“Over here, Pete.” Tony says. Peter almost melts hearing his voice. He walks around one wall and past some large pieces of equipment that cost more than his tuition (and he’s at freaking Colombia) to find the man sitting at a table. He’s got his hands inside an Iron Man helmet, and he turns to look at Peter when the younger makes it into his vision.

It’s hard to quiet the spike of excitement and hope hearing Tony address him. Which is—wow— _really fucking sad_ if Peter’s honest. He needs to get a life. 

“Hey kid, how you feelin’? Everything still in working order?” Mr. Stark asks. He looks at Peter for one blissful moment that seems to last a few seconds, before turning quickly away. 

“Uh,” Peter looks away, too. He doesn’t want to be a creeper and stare at Mr. Stark while the man obviously avoids seeing him. “Yeah. Yep. I’m good. I am, I’m good.” And then, because he’s desperate and stupid and hasn’t spoken to Tony in almost a month, he rambles, “I slept for twenty hours, apparently. Friday told me. Steve said they put sleeping medicine in this kind of gross protein shake thing that they gave me yesterday, so I was out. Which was nice.” 

Stupid. 

Tony’s sudden guffaw takes him by surprise. The man brushes it off, shaking his head, and the grin on his face looks almost genuine, almost fond. 

“Yeah, so I heard. Friday tells me you aren’t eating or sleeping enough, so I’m glad you’re feeling better. I was worried about you.” Before Peter can interject that he’s fine, Tony continues, “That ‘Mysterio’ guy took quite the hit out of you. I know he's one of your friendly neighborhood crooks, Spidey, so I'm sorry, but. I did nab him when I showed up. SHIELD is going to have a field day with that guy…” He sighs. “I should’ve gotten there sooner, Pete. I’m sorry.” 

Peter’s just trying not to be sent reeling simply by how much conversation he’s getting right now. He takes a step forward, hands coming out of his sleeves.

“No! No, it’s ok, I’m- I’m fine now! You- thank you for helping me, Mr. Stark. You really didn’t have to do that. At all, so...” He insists. He hopes Tony can hear how sincere he is. 

And he’s thrown off again when Tony suddenly looks at him (directly, for the second time in over twenty days). 

“Of course I did. I wasn’t just going to leave you hanging out there, Pete. You’re an avenger, my teammate, you’re-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. Peter is having a hard time breathing. “I wanted to check up on you, but that’s not the main reason I asked you down here.” 

Peter stops breathing entirely. 

“Um, okay. Wh-what is it?” 

He swallows hard again.

(He’s glad Tony doesn’t have enhanced hearing. Peter’s not sure he could physically withstand another ounce of chagrin.)

Mr. Stark runs a hand through his own hair and clears his throat, barely, skittishly glancing at Peter. “So, I was wondering, uh, if you’d like. There’s a room. On the communal floor.” 

...Huh?

The confusion must show on his face, because Tony looks at him more deliberately and continues, “Well, I just mean, if you want. If you want it, there’s a room on the communal floor. Next to Vision, but he’s really good at not phasing into your space without permission, now. That shouldn’t be a problem. It’s actually a bigger space than the one you have up there with me, so. If you want to move out, get some space or something, I- you can.” 

Peter takes a minute to process that. It runs through his brain, having to wake up some critical social thinking that was shut down during his near month long regression. 

Tony’s offering to let him move out?

Why would he...? 

Or- no, wait. No, oh no, Tony is—

Tony’s not offering to let him move out, he’s— _fuck_ —he’s dropping the biggest hint he can. Of course, when Peter’s been ignoring all his other hints, _like, say, never interacting with him at all, for example_ —of course Mr. Stark would step up to something bigger. 

Peter’s so fucking stupid that Tony has to be uncomfortably obvious. 

He’s offering Peter a new room because he wants Peter off his floor. He wants Peter to move out, wants him away from him. That’s the only explanation for this that makes any sense, and it—

It _hurts_. 

It shouldn’t, after all that’s happened with Tony avoiding him like the plague, this shouldn’t hurt as bad as it does. In three weeks they’ve barely spoken, rarely been in the same room for more than a passing moment with the exception of training and yesterday, when Mr. Stark saved him. Tony’s hardly looked at him at all but he hasn’t made eye contact _once_ in almost a month.

And yet, hearing him say in the clearest way he can without literally saying “get out”—it still hurts. 

But Peter’s already caused Tony enough trouble. He’s already screwed them up enough, he’s already put plenty of added stress into Mr. Stark’s already stressful life. He already dragged the man out of his reclusion with the whole Mysterio thing. 

He doesn’t need to make this any harder than it has to be. 

“I- yeah, ok, cool. If you’d like that, then I’m fine with whatever, Mr. Stark. I’m flexible.” _Dumbass_ , “I mean, I-I don’t mind moving out. I’m sure Vision’s a cool neighbor,” he says. He tries so hard to make it sound confident and light-hearted, to joke a little at the end, but he hears the tremor in his own voice. 

If Tony hears it too, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

The man’s shoulders sag a little, he slumps (Peter wants it to feel like disappointment but it’s definitely relief), and he nods slowly. 

“Alright, yeah. I’ll, um. I’ll let you do that. Friday can help, whenever you want to.” Tony says quietly. He sounds tired. 

(Peter wants that tone to be defeated, unhappy, but no doubt the man is just exhausted by the younger’s presence.)

Peter nods even though Mr. Stark isn’t looking at him. He can’t speak. He’s already crying. 

So he leaves as fast as he can, holding his breath until the elevator doors close behind him, and he can release a shuddering sob, wheeze in and muffle the bawling in the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

_Fuck_. 

He puts one forearm in front of his mouth to quiet the sounds that he can’t hold back, and presses the other over his eyes, and sobs. There are a lot of tears. Three weeks of build up rushing out as fast as they can, soaking the sleeve so that he feels the wetness spread where fabric touches the bridge of his nose. 

It’s hard to tell how loud he’s being. Things are always louder to him than others, with his hearing, and now he’s in a metal box. He just does his best to cover up the sounds the best he can. 

**“Peter, you appear to be in distress. Should I alert Mr. Stark?”**

Friday’s voice startles him and he jumps, hitting the wall of the elevator. It’s a good thing, though, because he leans against it, slipping down, cowering into himself. 

“No, no no no, I’m ok, don’t tell Mr. Stark, Friday, please don’t tell him, I’m just-” He barely gets the words out between heaving breaths and sobs so violent they hurt his chest and stomach. 

He’s still crying, not even close to done, but the added panic of Tony finding out he’s blubbering like this sends his already fragile, crumbling composure into overdrive, and he starts dry heaving. 

(Praying, Peter pleads to Thor that he doesn’t throw up in Tony’s elevator. Not now, not like this.) 

**“I’m sorry, Peter, but I have a protocol to alert Mr. Stark when you are significantly upset or in significant jeopardy.”**

_Shit_. Peter sinks down into a condensed, squatting ball of misery, crying in the corner. He rocks from his heels to the balls of his feet and wraps his arms around himself, burying his face in the folds of his hoodie and joggers.

Tony _hates_ him. Tony hates him and Peter is even more sick than he already thought he was, because the same thing that happened with Mr. Stark—his mentor, his teammate, someone he trusts and cares about ~~and loves~~ —happened with _Mysterio_ , his _enemy_.

He tries, he really, really tries to calm himself down. It doesn’t work. It does not work at all. He just keeps spiraling, continues to think and overthink and he can’t _breathe_ anymore, what is _wrong_ with him?!

It’s not twenty seconds before the elevator stops on the lab floor again, and Peter’s stomach sinks, taking the nausea with it as he realizes Tony is about to see him having a mental breakdown. 

_Fuck_. 

He wants to say that at least their relationship can’t get any more screwed up, but he’s not that bold. It seems impossible, except honestly, there’s probably something worse than the horrible awkwardness and pain that defined the last few weeks. 

The elevator doors open and Peter’s senses tell him Tony is right there, standing right in front of him. 

“Pete! Pete, hey, holy shit, kid, what’s happening? What’s going on? Peter, you gotta talk to me, what’s wrong?!” Mr. Stark exclaims, rushing into the elevator. He pauses in front of Peter, hands reaching out, and because apparently the younger still has some heart left to break, he cries louder realizing that the man is hesitating, not wanting to touch him. 

_Not wanting to be anywhere near him._

“I-I’m sorry,” Peter chokes out. “I’m sorry I’m s-sorry I’m sor-ry I-”

“No, no, what are you apologizing for? You have nothing to apologize for, kid, sweetheart, what-? What’s going on, Peter?” 

The pet name doesn’t even reach his mind. Peter sniffles, still crying but trying to wipe tears and snot away from his face with his sleeves, wanting to melt into the walls of the lift and disappear forever. 

“I-I’m so s-sorry, Mr. S-Stark-”

He stops when Tony reaches forward, grabbing his shoulders, one hand immediately sliding up to cup the back of Peter’s neck. 

“I don’t understand, kid, you gotta help me out. You don’t have to apologize for crying, I-I’m sorry, please, please tell me what’s going on,” Mr. Stark pleads, his voice softer. The elevator doors are still open. 

“I’m sorry f-for f-freaking you out and m-making you uncomfortable and n-n-now you think I’m g-gross and weird a-and I didn’t m-mean to, to mess up like tha-that,” Peter cries. He lifts his head but keeps his hands covering his face, only exposing his mouth so he can speak. He doesn’t see Tony’s physical reaction, but he’s not expecting to hear—

“What? Freaking me out, Peter, you’re not- you don’t- _kid_ , what the hell are you talking about?!”

Peter bites his lip hard and moans miserably, and some evil, ironic part of him is amused because there’s no mistaking _that_ sound for anything but rightfully pained. _Devastated_. 

“When I- when y-you-” He sobs loudly and feels like a stupid child all over again, “Th-that d-day when your glove, got, g-got in my hair, and I-I, I _reacted_ , I’m sorry Mr. Stark I’m s-sorry!” 

Tony doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and Peter just shakes, trembling and crying and taking high, choppy breaths. 

And then he’s being yanked forwards and something firm and warm meets him in the middle, and Tony’s arms are wrapping around him, holding him tight, keeping him firmly tucked into the older man’s chest. 

Peter freezes.

What? 

No—wait, what? 

“Pete, I- fuck, _fuck_ Peter, no. No, no I’m sorry, _I’m sorry,_ I’m so sorry sweetheart. That’s my fault, that’s- you didn’t freak me out, you didn’t make me uncomfortable, you’re not gross or weird at all. You didn’t do anything wrong, baby, I promise.” Tony says. He’s talking quickly and squeezing Peter against him, and the younger just blinks, his hands falling away from his eyes. 

“Wh-what,” he sniffles, then does it again. He’s _confused_. “Why did you a-act like that, then? You- you’ve barely even _looked_ at me f-for the last _month_.” He shudders as he speaks, overestimating his ability to talk through the emotions, and the breakdown that isn't actually over yet catches up to him and he sobs again. 

Tony seems to melt a little, shoulders dropping, pressing his head against the top of Peter’s, but he doesn’t loosen the embrace. 

“I can’t tell you, kid-”

“Please,” Peter cuts him off. If there’s a reason, if there is any other reason in the world that Mr. Stark acted like that besides hating Peter, he needs to know. “Please, Mr. Stark, I wanna know, I f-feel like I’m m-messed up and there’s s-something wrong with- with me-” He's still crying so hard. 

Tony makes a pained sound. “No, no, I’m the one who’s messed up, Pete. Because I liked it, ok? I liked the way you ' _reacted'_ too much. There is _nothing_ wrong with _you_. _Nothing_ , Peter.” 

Peter sniffles again. He feels tired and weak in Tony’s arms, and he pushes his face into the man’s shirt, only a little apologetic about the snot and tears. 

“It was good?” He asks. His voice is small. He needs to know. He has to know if this was okay, because he has been beating himself up over this enough to make every Bad Guy he’s ever faced insanely jealous. He’s confused and exhausted and goddammit he just wants Tony to make him feel better. “It was okay?”

The older man sighs. “Yeah, kid. That’s okay. It’s okay for you to like… things like that. What’s not okay is how it makes me feel about you.” 

Peter gasps, comparatively (to the sobs from a moment ago) quiet but dramatic, heaving his entire chest. How it makes Tony feel about him? So Tony _does_ hate him after all?

“B-bad feelings?” He whimpers. Tony holds him tighter, and Peter can feel the man shaking his head against his own face. 

“No, Pete. Not bad feelings. Well, they are, but only because I shouldn’t… Listen, Peter, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault I’m a dirty old pervert and shouldn’t think about you like that.” 

It takes Tony saying ‘pervert’ for Peter to finally understand what he means. 

He makes Tony feel... like that? Like, Tony is _attracted_ to him?

_Holy fucking shit, does Peter turn on Tony Stark?!_

His eyes are wide and he gives himself a few seconds to catch up, not noticing that he’s clinging to Mr. Stark’s sleeves until the man shifts and Peter moves solidly, entirely with him. 

He can’t—he can’t _not_ say something, now. He has to tell the man. He needs Tony to know. 

“... even if I think about you like that?” 

The man tenses and his chest expands, then holds, like he’s stopped breathing. Peter hears his heartbeat jump. 

“Kid…” 

“Will you do it again?” 

Tony lets out his breath slowly. His heart rate doesn’t slow down. Which is a nice comfort, because Peter’s is _racing_. 

“Please, Mr. Stark? You said it was okay, you said it wasn’t wrong. I want to, I-I want to understand and I, I trust you,” he pleads softly. So softly, voice quivering, it’s a miracle someone without enhanced hearing heard him. 

Tony takes another very slow breath. 

“I can’t say no to you, Pete. Fuck, I can’t deny you anything,” he says, his voice low and deep and vibrating through their clothes, straight into Peter’s core.  
  


The hand at his neck slips up, grasping a fistful of the hair at the back of his head, the top of the grip just below Peter’s crown.

Tony pulls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional detailed content notes/warnings:  
> minor Mysterio being a creep; glossed over unhealthy coping mechanisms re: poor eating + sleeping habits, mentioned heavy alcohol use; I’m imagining,,, im1 aged or younger Tony (bc Floofy Hair) + 21yo Pete, so age difference isn’t as big but it’s still a thing—be aware of that I guess; anxiety isn’t explicitly mentioned or discussed but plot is dependent on Peter’s anxiety; inappropriate use of iron man armour re: gauntlet spanking; I’m probably making this sound way worse than it is
> 
> hope you enjoy/ed chapter one, chapter two is just around the corner <3 <3 <3 
> 
> oh! p.p.s. woah I almost forgot, I have a tumblr @ bitter-lemon-water !!! lets lose our shit abt Peter Parker together ?


	2. in hot rod red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned, utterly depraved smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab some water and some snacks + get comfy babes, we're gonna be here a while, bc: This is over 14k!! Oh!! My fucking god!!! Someone please tell me when it is Too Much because I have no control!!! 
> 
> Earning my "porn with feelings" tag now. Also, Tony has a big dick: change my mind.
> 
> My “editing” is proofreading once (one time) while I try to make sure the italics/bold/strike-outs all transferred alright from google docs to ao3, so be aware of that I guess? Idk how happy I am with it and will likely go through and make minor changes eventually, but this is what I’ve got-- regardless, I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoy reading!

_Tony pulls._

Peter moans loudly as that beautiful, blissful, terrifying pain returns to him. It’s another spark, a flash that sets off all his nerve endings, sends them straight through him, sharp and hot and down between his legs. 

Mr. Stark moans, too, much lower than Peter’s effeminate sound and it’s so fucking good, it makes Peter’s thighs feel hollow and tingly, like birds’ bones, like he could float away. 

Another tug and Peter moans louder. It’s purposeful, it’s _practiced_ , it makes him squirm and breathe too fast in only seconds, makes him claw at Tony’s sleeves and chest, bite his lip and squeeze his eyes closed and _drown_. 

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Tony sighs, unsteady. “That’s beautiful, Pete. God, I want to kiss you,” He sounds breathless. He sounds _hot_. That voice alone, those words, could’ve hijacked Peter’s most secret wet dreams for years. (They most certainly will now.)

“Please,” he whimpers. Mr. Stark pulls away from him, forcing space between them and it makes Peter whine, wiggling in place, clinging to the man. He barely gets a moment of Tony’s face, eyes lidded and pupils huge, lips parted, looking every bit the angel and sin embodied that Peter can’t get out of his head. 

Then Tony kisses him. 

Peter has kissed people before. Liz and MJ, in high school. Gwen and Harry in college. Even Ned, once, when they were thirteen and just wanted to see what would happen. 

All of those had been different. They were young, they were learning, no one ever knew exactly, entirely what they were doing. And there was a comfort in that—they were just screwing around, there was security in learning together, there was intimacy in how they _had_ to be relaxed and goofy and never serious about it, because none of them were confident. 

If they didn’t relax and allow themselves the playfulness to laugh off the mistakes, then none of it ever would have happened because they’d all have always been too scared. 

This is nothing even remotely close to any of those kisses. Tony knows what he’s doing. 

_On god,_ Tony knows what he's doing. 

His lips are soft and smooth and hot but _firm_ , pliant enough to move with Peter, stern enough to guide him, frame Peter’s own lips and take the lead. There’s _finesse_ to it. 

The hand in Peter’s hair—not burning, not hurting, but giving him the fiery sting that keeps his nerves lit up, won’t let him settle—leads him, twists so that Peter tilts his head exactly as far as Tony wants him to. 

The older man moves him. He angles them, slots their mouths together. His tongue peaks out, silky and wet, and Peter gasps. Tony breaks the kiss, but only to lick Peter’s bottom lip, once, a second time, faster, a third time, slowly, dragging his tongue along the flushed pink flesh and then pointing it, slipping it into Peter’s mouth. 

Peter moans again. It’s not as loud, not as obscene, but it’s needier, lower, and he tries to shuffle closer to Tony, wants the man to consume him. 

Another little tug to his hair makes him mewl into Tony’s mouth, and the man groans into his. The feeling, the sound of Mr. Stark, his tongue slowly, salaciously exploring Peter’s mouth, open kisses, parted lips, sealing them together and breaking off, letting the sounds fill the elevator with frantic breathing and moaning—all goes to Peter's dick, already growing hard.

It goes to his weak, quivering thighs and his toes and fingertips, and it fogs up his mind. Foxglove and carnation petals bloom soft and vicious inside his head, making him incapable of thought. It’s intoxicating. 

“You’re perfect, sweetheart, you’re fucking perfect,” Tony says. He kisses Peter’s chin, just under his bottom lip, and then his nose, kisses softly over Peter’s closed eyes, kisses the tear streaks down the younger man’s cheeks. 

Peter sobs with his mouth shut tight, biting the noise back. “I thought-” 

“I know,” Tony cuts him off, and he sounds so _upset_ , “I know, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Peter.”

“You were ignoring me,” Peter whimpers. He hates how trivial it sounds, worded like that. “You just- just asked if I wanted t-to move out.” He pulls against Tony’s grip on his hair to kiss the man’s jawline. Tony purrs, gravely voice on a low hum, and lets Peter’s head move closer, though not easily enough to free the pressure. 

“You’re all I ever thought about. Every second that you turned away,” he pauses, making another small, hurt noise, “Couldn’t stop thinking about what you look like under the clothes, under the suit. You made such a sweet sound, but you looked so _scared_ when you opened your eyes, I thought I’d—fuck—I thought I _molested_ you or something. Didn’t want you to see how hard I was, too. And then you came into the kitchen the next morning-”

He pauses to moan when Peter nibbles on his ear (he can’t believe he can do this, but he doesn’t want to think about, brain separated from his body and all his focus on the words Tony says), “-straight out of the shower, looking _so pretty_ , and all I wanted was to push you up against the counter and put my hand in your perfect hair and pull and kiss you ‘til you cried.”

Peter whines again, his body moving on it’s own, clinging to Tony, shifting until he’s on his knees and rolling his hips forward into nothing. The older man sighs, lower arm dropping further to wrap around Peter’s waist, just above the swell of his ass, guiding him closer.

“Every time you were in the room I had to try so much not to get hard, and you were always so nervous, Peter, I thought you were _scared_ of me. I thought _you_ wanted to avoid _me_ , thought I’d be doing you a favor giving you a room down there, getting you away from me.” Tony breathes, burying his face into the narrowly exposed crook of Peter’s neck and _licking_. 

Peter shakes his head, chest hitching. “Don’t want to go away from you,” he gasps. He's beyond eloquence by this point. He doesn't care. Tony nods, biting the sensitive junction where his nape meets his shoulder, face framed by Peter’s slender throat and the hoodie.

“Good. Because I won’t let you, now.”

It should honestly be unnerving, possessive. But it makes Peter _hard._ Makes the nonexistent space between their two bodies torture. He wants to melt into Tony, he wants the man to devour him whole. 

And still—

“You wouldn’t even look at me,” he whispers. He knows now why Tony avoided him—he thought Peter was the one wanting space.

But it hurts anyways, the severed connection, the distance. He wants to erase that hurt. He wants Tony to dissolve the pain, he needs there to not be even a sliver of doubt left in his mind that Tony cares about him, that he’s not _disgusted_ , that Peter is _okay_. 

Tony jerks him back, not harsh, not rough, but not gentle. He tugs Peter by the hair so that there’s breathing room between them, wrenching a whine out of the younger’s mouth as he pulls so he can meet Peter’s eyes. 

“I’m looking at you now.”

Peter’s heart stops beating. The finality in Tony’s tone, drenched in longing and guilt and sternness, is a statement. A declaration. A _promise_.

An eruption of emotions come exploding from a place just under and behind Peter’s lungs, sucker punching him in the stomach, physically bursting out of him in tears and the energy that propels him forward so he can kiss the older man again. 

Tony takes the motion in stride, allowing Peter to throw himself at him, his grip on the younger’s hair finally releasing so he can caress and squeeze Peter’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter cries, trying to pepper wet kisses over Tony’s cheeks and jaw. 

“Don’t be, don’t be, don’t ever be sorry,” Tony replies. He dodges Peter’s next kiss to plant one of his own on a salty wet cheek, then presses his lips firmly to the younger man’s. 

They’re so swept up in it that neither notices the elevator doors closing or the lift rising until it stops, doors sliding back open. Tony bites Peter’s bottom lip softly, then a harsh nip and a gentle kiss to soothe the sear of pain. 

“You have to understand. I would _ruin_ you, Peter.” 

“I want that, I want you to.” Peter whispers against Tony’s mouth. (Thank god he brushed his teeth before he came down here.)

“I- fuck, baby, you- you can’t possibly know what you want, you’re so-” the older man groans. He pulls away, grabbing Peter’s biceps and helping Peter up with him as he rises, the smaller leaning against the elevator wall and Tony standing on his own, gripping Peter’s arms tightly.

Then he starts to let go, starts to move back, and Peter panics, grabbing the man’s shirt desperately, moving with him, dragging him back. He’s scared, he doesn’t want Tony to leave him. ~~He's also really fucking _hard_ right now. ~~

“Please, _Tony_ , please, please ruin me, I want you to, I’m asking you to, _please-_ ” 

He’s cut off by another kiss, Tony’s tongue dipping right back into his mouth like it belongs there, diving in alongside his own, lips sucking, coaxing Peter’s tongue out until the younger gets the message.

Imitating Tony—if less confident, less aggressive, but just as desperate—he tentatively explores the older man’s mouth. It’s wet and soft, and he tastes kind of smokey, a mouthful flavor that takes over, kind of sweet, too, but smooth. It’s different, not the most appealing in the world, but by no means something that makes Peter want to recoil. 

_(“Alcohol is gross, Mr. Stark. That’s just a fact,” Peter said, once. Tony had rolled his eyes at him._

_“When you’re drinking convenience store hard cider, yeah. Good alcohol isn’t gross. Good_ whiskey _especially_ _is never_ bad _, whether it’s exactly to your taste or not.”_

_Peter gets that now.)_

It feels so good, hot and the sleek side of velvet, and it’s messy but Peter doesn’t care. He rubs his tongue along Tony’s, maps out the satin canvas and the harsh edges of teeth, moans a lower sound than anything he’s made thus far, the sound of an addict getting a fix. _Satisfied_.

"I love it when you say my name like that," Tony rasps. "Do it again. Say it again," he dips back into the kiss, drags wet lips down from Peter's mouth to his chin, nibbling.

" _Tony,_ " Peter gasps. 

There’s no more room to scoot forward. They’ve melted together. That doesn’t stop Peter’s hips from stuttering, rolling forward against Tony’s leg, and the friction against the man’s hard, muscled thigh against his aching cock is like ecstasy.

A lascivious whine slips out of his mouth, traveling along his tongue directly into Tony’s as they kiss again, and the man’s responding groan does the same, sailing back to Peter and filling in every crevice. 

One of Tony’s hands goes back up to Peter’s nape, dragging up his hoodie as he does so Peter can feel the cold wall of the elevator against his spine. The other hand slips down to worm in between their bodies. It cups Peter’s clothed dick and elicits a high, needy mewl. 

Tony bites his lip again and tips his head to the side, forward, pressing against the wall beside Peter and firmly pinning the younger in place, not allowing him to try and regain the space to kiss again. 

Theoretically, Peter could take that space back. He’s strong enough to push Tony off. He’s strong enough to reverse their position entirely.

He doesn’t want to, though. 

“We don’t have to,” Tony says, rough. He swallows to clear his throat and speaks just above Peter’s ear so his breath tickles the smaller man’s skin. “Ever, anything, if you don’t want to. But right now, we don’t-” another pause to curse as Peter grinds shamelessly into the older’s palm, “Whatever you want, Peter. Nothing you don’t.” 

“Want you.” Peter says. He’s so hot, everything is so hot. He needs to get out of these goddamn sweats. The material is soft fabric, not the athletic polyester prone to stick to sweaty skin, but it still feels too tight, suffocating where the joggers fit to his thighs and ankles, the hoodie seemingly plastered to his stomach. His only relief the cold of the metal against his back. 

“I want you, I want all of you, everything, now, _please_ now, please, I can’t, I-” he cuts himself off, choking, coughing and keening when Tony rubs his hand firmly. His fingers push between Peter’s legs, pressing in between his tightly closed thighs when he rolls down, fingertips pressure on Peter’s perineum through the pants, palm kneading into Peter’s length _just right_ when he drags back up.

“You can have me, Pete, I’ll give you everything, everything you want. Baby, I’ll take care of you just like you need,” Tony says lowly. He licks the shell of Peter’s ear, lips at the sensitive skin, bites gently and tugs a little. Peter whines and tries to move with the older man’s hand. He juts up and follows the cupped palm, pushing against Tony just for the man to pin him back with his body, keeping his hold rubbing Peter’s cock just barely too light. 

The hand at Peter’s nape threads through his hair again, tugs again. Peter can’t think straight, can’t think to quiet the desperate sounds escaping him. The sensations are so much, too much, nowhere near enough, _perfect_. 

He never imagined that something could hurt so good but Tony does it just right. Tony makes him feel high. Like the man himself is an aphrodisiac. 

“You like that a lot, huh? Like being roughed up a bit, maybe? You like to be hurt, sweetheart?” Tony says. His tone is fucking insane, bordering condescending but gentle, hopeful, _patient_. Peter nods. He bites his lip and would’ve knocked his head against the wall if not for Tony’s hand, cushioning the impact and dragging blissful pain from his scalp. 

“Just a little bit,” he breathes, thinking about how the soft sting drives him crazy, remembering the grip on his throat, remembering how much he loathes being hurt for real. “Just enough.” 

Tony nods against him, pulls away enough to kiss his cheek. He lets go of Peter’s hair again, massaging where he’s been gripping, fingers magic on Peter’s burning head.

“Tell me more.” He orders. Requests. Begs. 

Peter’s mouth falls open again as Tony grabs him through the sweatpants. 

“Mm- my hair’s different,” a whimper, “it’s a-always sensitive like that, but everywhere else, it’s like, l-like my endurance and h-healing-!” He trails into a high whine when Tony slips his hand under the joggers, thumbing at Peter’s tip through nothing but pre-come damp boxers. 

A satisfied, shit-eating grin is pressed against his cheek, followed by a sweet kiss. 

“Go on.” 

_Asshole_. 

“‘s like my healing t-takes over and comp- compensates, a-and everything goes d-dull and mute a-and, I, I don’t want it to hurt, I don’t want it to hurt f-for real, but I n-need more, I-” he stops, then, because he feels like he’s going to start crying again. 

He didn’t want to think about it before, because he thought he was sick, that it was _wrong_ , like he was hurting Tony with it, but it’s like there’s some specific, special amount of pain that makes the pleasure better, that breaks through the wall of his senses allaying, and nothing, no one makes him feel it but Tony. He’s the only one that gets it right. 

Tony’s the only one who understands.

“I know, I know, angel. I get it.”

Peter sobs.

“I’ll give you whatever you want. Whatever you need, baby. No more, no less. _I’ve got you_ ,” Tony coos, and he finally (finally) kisses the younger man again, bringing back that soft, steady motion. 

He takes his hand away from between Peter’s legs and the younger groans in despair, chasing the touch, craving the friction. Tony’s hands wind around his waist, and god, his hands are so big on Peter’s slim middle, wide and heavy and hot through the sweatshirt. He kisses the needy sounds as they leave Peter’s mouth, licking the younger man’s lips again when he breaks away. 

“Easy, baby, c’mere,” Tony whispers, dragging Peter away from the wall by his hips. Peter goes with him, pliant, molding into the older man. He clings to Tony’s shoulders, unable to stop his jutting hips and shaking legs. The other just grins softly at him and pecks his cheeks. 

Before he can realize what’s happening, Tony’s hands fall to behind his thighs, and he pulls. Peter gets the message, jumping up, strength and agility letting him smoothly rise so that he can wrap his legs around Tony’s waist, the man’s hands gripping his ass. 

  
And _fuck_. 

It feels so good, he drops his face into Tony’s neck, mouth open, drooling and moaning one long, desperate, whiny sound, crying out. Tony’s hands on his ass, fingers digging in, big palms cupping cheeks and feeling the flex of Tony’s forearms against his thighs and waist, all feels so _right_. The man is _thick_ , not pure hurculean like a super soldier or god but muscular and firm and holds him so tightly, so possessive. With his legs spread wide around Tony’s torso, Peter can grind forward, frantic and needy and not caring how inexperienced he comes off. 

“Fuck, baby,” Tony groans. He hikes Peter up a little higher, squeezing his handfuls, breathing against the side of the younger man’s head. Peter can’t _think_ anymore.

Tony walks them to his master bedroom, spacious with big windows and an Alaskan king bed, everything spotless, clear glass, sleek steel, dark, luxurious wood. Peter’s never even been in this room before—he never had the need. 

(The desire, yes, but a legitimate reason, no.)

The way the older man kneads Peter’s ass is heavenly, but when he squeezes _tighter_ than that, when he _pinches_ , Peter chokes. He loses air and gasps for it back, his grip too tight on the man’s shoulders, jolting forward against him.

“That good, Pete? You like that?” Tony asks. His skin is so warm and he repeats the motions. The pain is sharp, short, little zaps that linger with a sting, on the opposite side of his hips as his cock and with barely any distance to go to fill his length with more need, making him harder. _He's so hard_. 

Peter nods fast, panting. It’s hard to breathe. It’s _good_. Tony sets him down on the edge of the bed, leaning over, so Peter doesn’t have far to go to lay back on the mattress. He doesn’t finish lying down, though, doesn’t close the gap between himself and the bed. He keeps clinging. Holds tight to Tony.

“That’s good, baby. That’s really good,” Tony says. “Wanna try something. I wanna make you feel even better. Need you on my lap, sweetheart.”

Peter only just manages to contain a disgruntled, bratty whine at having to let go, but he does, keeping his hands on Tony but giving the man the room to sit down next to him. He moves to straddle the older, and god, he wants to split his legs apart on those thick thighs, but he’s stopped with hands on his waist. 

“Do you trust me, Pete?” Tony’s looking him in the eyes, holding a stern, relentless eye contact. Peter starts to tear up again without meaning to. He just- he hasn’t seen Tony in days before this evening. The man hasn’t actually _looked_ at him in _weeks_. 

He nods. Of course he trusts Tony. He trusts the man more than almost anyone else. 

“Ok,” Tony breathes. “Lay on your stomach, baby, over my legs.”

  
Oh. 

_Oh_.

Peter might be a little slow, sometimes, especially when he’s all fogged up with lust and varying raging emotions, but he’s pretty sure he knows what Tony is suggesting. 

He nods again, heart beating out of his body but suddenly breathing so slow, his chest dropping and rising dramatically. Slowly, slowly, he reaches over, bracing himself on Tony’s legs, and then the bed, slipping off the edge, draping himself over the older man’s thighs. 

Once he’s finally situated, after squirming and readjusting until he’s comfortable, for the first time that night he feels Tony’s erection against his stomach. 

Tony’s _massive_ erection against him. _Holy shit_ , it’s huge, it’s so big, that’s-

“Oh my god,” he breathes. He wiggles around just to feel it move against him because _woah._ Tony groans, grabbing his waist to hold him in place, laughing breathlessly. 

“Yeah, baby. You can have that later, if you want. But first,” he pets Peter’s hair, running his fingers through it, soothing, hushing him as he fidgets. Then suddenly he takes a fistful, tugging back, and Peter cries out loudly, lurching forward without conscious thought, grinding against Tony’s leg, squirming.

“If you want me to stop, just say so, okay? Or tap my leg as fast as you can. Alright, Pete?” 

Peter nods, one hand grabbing Tony’s jeans, the other taking a fist of the comforter on the edge of the bed. 

“Please,” he wheezes. 

A hand comes down on his ass, cushioned by the joggers, not too harsh. It makes him moan with his mouth closed, head dropping, feeling the burn roll through him, letting it light up his nerves. 

It’s not enough. 

Two more come down before Peter whimpers, writhing, skin heating up and cock hard. Tony parts his legs, helps the younger man shift until the budge in his sweats is between thighs, free of trapped pressure but now without any friction. 

“Please,” Peter whimpers again. He sounds pitiful in his own ears but Tony moans, breathless, hands tugging Peter’s joggers down. His waistband hugs just under his ass and the room is suddenly cold. It’s a stark difference from the overwhelming heat that still encompasses his torso, and he feels shivers run up his spine and down his legs. He shudders. 

Tony hits him again. It’s harder this time, and the smack of skin against skin cuts through the silence of the room with the same violent shock that Peter feels in his body. He rocks with the hit, instinct to escape lolling him forward, desperate desire for more pulling him back. 

Another hit. Three more. Peter can’t think or breathe, the relentless rapid fire thoughts that always trip over each other and drive him insane all thoroughly drowned out. His cock is still trapped in his boxers, tugged at an angle by the partly-removed garment. He doesn’t care. 

He tries to fuck down, roll his hips, thrusting into nothing as he moans. Tony pulls his hair back and spanks him hard, harder, and Peter can’t imagine that it’s not starting to hurt the older man’s palm as well. His skin is on fire, ass burning hot, the sting and ache slowly filling him, like a coat slowly soaking in the rain, the sensations inch deeper, brighter, further.

“Still okay, baby? Need a break?” Tony asks. He’s out of breath, panting like he’s been sprinting for miles. His palm rests, a light, unmoving weight on Peter’s ass. 

The younger man shakes his head fervently. 

“D-Don’t- don’t stop, p-please, please don’t stop, please-“ 

Tony strikes him again, even harder than before. The sound is so loud it’s _vulgar_ , and Peter’s responding cry is as voluptuous as it is pained and pitiful. He rocks forward again, thrusting down, desperate for any kind of friction. He knows his dick is leaking, a mess of sticky pre in his boxers, and everything is so _hot_ now. 

Four more smacks. Pause, two more. Another three. Peter bites his lip and muffles a scream in his own mouth, but it’s not a reaction to some excruciating pain—it’s not _enough_. 

He feels empty and hollow, the pain isn’t there yet, his enhanced body overcompensating tenfold, numbing everything. Conditioned from years of vigilante crime fighting to tune out pain. Even the throb in his head from that sweet tug on his hair is starting to fade, to mute.

Everything is being greyed out and smoothed down and he doesn’t _want_ it to be, he wants to feel it, he wants to feel it all. 

He wants to ignite all his nerves and light up the needy pleasure with something heavier and thicker, thinner and lighter, something brighter, louder—he needs _more_. 

“T-Tony, Tony, Tony Tony Tony-“ he starts to chant, blubbering, wet running down his cheeks. He feels like he’s going to rip the comforter. He doesn’t care. 

Three more hits in quick succession, then radio silence. Just when Peter’s about to moan and beg for more, Tony slaps again, shorter, stopping sooner and somehow making the pain sharper.

It brings fresh tears to Peter’s eyes and he chokes, hooking his ankles and trying to pry them apart without allowing the angle to do so, his own muscle fighting itself, anything to vent the rising, uprooting fire coursing through him. 

He’s torn up. He’s stuck. He just wants Tony to take him apart and put him back together with the older man in all the cracks, fill him up, liquid gold and _consume_ him. 

“Need more, need- please, _please_ more, need it, Tony-" he rambles, babbling. He’s _so close_. 

The joggers are the worst of confines, preventing him from rubbing off against anything other than the tortuously light scrapes of wet boxers against his tip. He wants to kick them off, wishes he could get rid of all the clothes on him and Tony and between them, dissolve naked into the other man. 

One final smack lands on his ass, flat palm hard and harsh and in the silence that follows, after Peter’s muffled cry dissipates into whimpers and needy, high groaning, he can hear Tony’s heavy breathing again. 

His ears are ringing, but Peter thinks he hears something whirring. Something metallic. He feels disconnected from his body, tethered only by his abused nerves, threads of buzzing, tingling, aching sharp pain that hold him close and let him feel just how badly he needs to come.

Pools of tension in his stomach and thighs and throat threatening to burst, teetering on the edge, but he’s not _there yet_. 

Something comes down on Peter’s ass and time stops. 

It’s _so good._

It’s cold, and that mixes with his already burning skin and the liquid fire of the smack to turn all his insides into molten, syrupy receptors of pure pleasure.

It’s metal, harder than Tony’s bare palm, firmer, sleeker, and if Peter has to guess, likely shades of red and gold. The whirring is there again, calibrated, _propulsion_ , and another smack lands. 

_Tony is using the gauntlet to_ spank _him._

It’s _enough_.

He moans louder, and it’s still a needy sound, still a filthy, carnal thing, but there’s satisfaction there, too. _Content_. It’s exactly what he needs. Exactly as much to overcome his overprotective senses and make him _feel_ , really, actually _feel_. 

It cuts through the healing and the strength and the endurance. Cuts through his desensitization to pain, to _everything_ , taps into whatever makes him hear and see and smell so much more intensely and suddenly it’s like he’s alive all over again, a new kind of living. 

Peter’s body _sings_. 

“Fuck, Peter, you're _unreal_. You’re perfect, my perfect angel,” Tony breathes. He strikes again, and Peter feels tears of relief force their way from his eyes, feels fat drops of precome gushing from the head of his neglected cock. 

He thought he’d gotten all of the feelings of abandonment out of his system in the elevator, thought Tony had soothed all the worries then—but hearing those words makes him feel something ugly and awful bubbling in his throat and he sobs again. 

“I-I th-thought you h-hate-ted me-e,” he cries. 

Tony hits him again, releasing his hair and running his bare hand over the bright red, sensitive ass. It’s soothing as much as it feels like he’s rubbed raw. The cool skin lights up fried nerves all over again in a different way.

“You thought I-?! Peter, _baby_ , no, no no no, never, I could never hate you, I- _fuck_ -" The bare hand gives a gentle squeeze and another slow circle to Peter’s pained cheeks, then runs back up to his hair and without warning strikes again with the gauntlet.

Peter takes the one hand that was close to tearing Tony’s jeans and brings it up to his mouth, biting the sleeve of his hoodie as he screams, doing his best to silence it.

“I love you, Peter-“ another hit, “-regardless, completely independent of anything romantic or sexual,” a harder smack, “Even if you’d never looked at me like that, even if I never felt that way about you, you’re so-" harder, “-so fucking important to me,” _harder_ , “I care about you so, so much. I could never hate you, sweetheart.”

Tony hits him again and Peter is amazed at how little he feels. It’s not like he’s being attacked by an Iron Man gauntlet, but like he’s a regular, ordinary, non-powered person, with another ordinary, non-powered person, being spanked gently, just enough to hurt enough to make the pleasure come alive.

And at the same time, he feels like it’s a wonder that he hasn’t broken in half, a wonder that he’s not bleeding with how completely on fire he is, overwhelmed and underwhelmed and feeling so good, _so right_ , like just a little more could send him over, without any other attention to his otherwise ignored—

“I love you so much,” Tony says. Peter bawls and the man hits him again. It’s not harder than anything else he’d felt, it doesn’t sting any different or burn anywhere else. It’s just right. Hearing Tony say that—it's exactly what he needs.

Peter comes with another loud, broken sob, whining and crying into his sleeve, spilling into his boxers. Pleasure wrecks him, rips him apart, shreds him from the inside out. 

Tony suddenly releases his hair again and wrenches his hand away, tearing his sleeve out of his mouth, but instead of giving the older man more debauched moans, he starts to babble: “love you, love you love you love you” spilling uncontrollably out of his mouth.

The hold on Peter’s wrist doesn’t release, Tony’s large palm and fingers grasping tight around the younger man, grip dipping past the baggy fit of the hoodie sleeve, accentuating how small and lithe Peter really is under the clothing. The older man’s other hand returns to Peter’s ass, but it’s bare again, gauntlet retracted into nano particles once more.

He touches softly, a barely-there motion, but it still feels like scrubbing Peter’s skin within an inch of his life, and the younger winces, flinching, body wriggling beyond his control. Tony just keeps up smoothing little circles, then rests his hand against Peter’s burning body until his palm is no longer cold, warmed by the smaller man’s radiating heat. 

“You did so good, baby, so good for me, that’s it,” Tony coos. He whispers more praise, reassurance, replying to every one of Peter’s weakly muttered “I love you”s with a declaration of his own.

Carefully, Tony helps Peter shuffle out of his underwear and joggers, tugging the fabric off and tossing it. Then the grabs Peter under his arms, leaning back on the bed, guiding the smaller man and lifting him, helping him onto his stomach on the mattress.

Peter goes with him like a graceless rag doll, but it doesn’t matter, because Tony has no problem manhandling him until he’s centered on the bed, laying on his front with his burning ass in the air. 

And then Tony’s crawling over him, not touching Peter’s bare bottom half with his clothed legs, but pressing his chest against Peter’s back. He can probably feel the sexual heat the younger is emitting through their layers, hoodie and old AC/DC t-shirt not sparing either from the warmth of the other. 

“You took it so well, Pete. So well. You’re alright now, shh, it’s over now,” Tony whispers. He kisses Peter’s nape, and the younger moans quietly, mostly incoherent, turning his face so one cheek is hidden in blankets and the other is exposed, chasing kisses. 

The older man obliges him, if indirectly. He pecks Peter’s top lip, then his bottom lip, before kissing him properly, steady and taut and flexible, once more guiding Peter through it. 

They just kiss for a few minutes, slow, breaking to catch their breath. Giving Peter a while to cool down. Letting him regain some sense and composure.

One of Tony’s hands runs through the younger’s hair, massaging the back of his head where he’s sensitive from the tugging. He’s acutely aware that he’s naked from the waist down and Tony is still completely clothed, but he has full intentions to fix that in a moment. 

For now, just kissing. Good, solid, delicious kissing. 

“Mmm, thank you,” Peter murmurs. He sighs as Tony breaks to pepper kisses to his cheek, nose and forehead, the side of his head. He gently twirls one of Peter’s chestnut curls with his first finger. 

“You’re welcome, but I should be thanking _you_ , baby. You were so good for me, made me feel good.” Tony replies. _Corrects_. 

At the mention of Tony feeling good, Peter suddenly remembers the massive erection that had prodded his stomach. He turns his head, looking down, searching where Tony is lowering himself, lounging on his side next to the smaller man. 

Sure enough, between Tony’s denim-clad thighs, the bulge is _obscene_. 

“You’re hard.”

Peter licks his lips subconsciously. He’s vaguely connected to himself at this point, but one thing is amazingly obvious in his mind: he wants Tony to fuck him. 

He definitely, definitely wants Tony to fuck him. 

When he looks up, Tony is staring at his mouth. 

“I am.” 

Peter swallows. Go big or go home, as they say. 

“Will you fuck me, now?” He asks. Tony’s eyelids drop, his lips part and he takes a slow breath. He kisses Peter again, much softer, a feather-light thing. 

“Do you want me to?” 

Peter nods, kissing back, deepening the movement the best he knows how, tilting, pressing, trying to show Tony just how badly he wants him to. 

A cold hand rests on his bare ass, taking him by surprise. He yelps into Tony’s mouth, though it’s a small sound, and the older man smirks.

The hand heats up fast, just as it did before. It lights up every nerve as it traces patterns on his beaten skin as one finger prods so gently over Peter’s hole.

He shudders and swallows and noses his way into Tony’s chest, hiding his face there, suddenly shy. Tony doesn’t seem to mind, smiling against the side of his head, kissing his hair and hushing him softly. 

“Have you done this before?” Tony’s voice is quiet, even to enhanced hearing. 

“Mhm.”

“How many times?” 

Peter squirms. “Once. I’ve had sex with girls more, but I’ve only... I’ve only done it with a guy once.” 

“And he fucked you, right? Or did you fuck him?” 

Just two sentences in Tony’s smooth baritone and all of Peter’s cheeks match the same shade of pink. 

“He fucked me.” He burrows further into Tony, somehow still nervous and embarrassed, despite how the older man just used his _Iron Man gauntlet_ to _spank_ him. Tony grins against him, humming pleased and amused. 

“Did you like it? Being fucked?” The finger pushes a little. Not entering but testing the resistance, tracing little circles around the rim. 

“I don’t know. He wasn’t very good at it. I... um... I can do better, w-with my fingers.” 

The touch at his hole freezes for a moment, the resumes the same pattern, and Tony’s other hand comes to tip Peter’s chin up and back, giving him the room to look down at the smaller man. 

“Yeah? You like to finger yourself, baby? You like to work yourself open, maybe play with your sweet spot?” Tony sounds like he’s enjoying this way too much, but Peter can’t find the will to be irritated or even snark the man.

He bites his lip and dislodges Tony’s hand, burying back into the man’s shoulder, earring huff of fond laughter from the man.

“‘s hard to do it.. right..” he whines quietly. 

Which is true. He doesn't really try it that often so he hasn't quite mastered the act yet. It’s hard for him to find the right angle, and usually, by the time he does, his wrists are sore and he’s got to move or switch hands, which just starts the process all over again. And then, even if or when he does manage to find it and keep at it, it’s so overwhelming and sensitive that he’s hardly able to touch it without turning himself into a mess. 

The whole thing is kind of a sore point for Peter, which is why he’s so embarrassed and wants to (mostly playfully) punch Tony when the man chuckles again. It’s not a mean sound, but it’s more entertained than he has any right to be, and Peter wants to sass him but the man speaks before he can. 

“Aw, darling,” he croons, ducking down so Peter has no choice but to allow Tony to pepper kisses over his blushing face. “Poor baby, it’s hard for you to do it right, huh?” 

The teasing verges on cruel, if _frisky_ , but what’s worse is how the playful lilt, the light kisses and tickle of Tony’s beard on his face and the gentle pressure on Peter’s hole make his cock twitch. He’s getting hard again and the skilled, loving bastard underneath the teasing sadist is only making it happen faster.

“How ‘bout I help you out then, yeah? Come on, baby, let me make you feel good,” Tony says. The teasing fades, abruptly replaced by something soft that tugs at Peter’s heart and makes him respond. 

He kisses Tony’s chin again, pecks the man’s nose and scoots towards him. “You already made me feel good, I wanna make _you_ feel good,” he whispers. 

Tony hums, smiling, kissing him. “We’ll get there, baby. Besides, this does make me feel good. I like treating you like this. I like giving you what you need.” 

Swallowing, all Peter can do is nod, breath hitching and he wiggles closer yet. Tony pecks him on the lips once more, then pushes himself up, pulling away.

He crawls over Peter’s body and centers himself between the younger man’s legs. 

“Hand me a pillow, will you?” Tony requests. 

Peter gives him one, and while the older man slips it under Peter’s hips—raising him up, trapping his almost fully hard cock against his stomach and presenting his ass—he grabs another, clutching it to himself and wrapping his arms around it. 

Tony thumbs at his hole again, spreading his cheeks apart to look at it and kissing each side of the younger’s burning ass.

The kisses make him tingle, soft on still smoking nerves, and he shifts, rolling his shoulders. His hoodie is too warm even now, but he’s grateful for it, making him feel a little more secure. He knows he’s safe with Tony, but, still. Something timid and bashful takes over him, now that he’s naked below and Tony is pulling his own shirt off, and they’re in a dark room on a bed together. 

It’s outrageous, but this is different than the tearful confessions in the elevator, the hurricane of sensations that was Tony spanking him. This is softer and more vulnerable and it draws the small, meek part of Peter out and wraps him up in it. He clings to the pillow and Tony plants more kisses. 

“Pretty,” the older man murmurs, thumbs sliding into place on either side of Peter’s rim and pulling, spreading his cheeks further, stretching the hole slightly. Peter gasps and buries his face in the plush. 

“Do you clean yourself here? Has anyone ever put their mouths on you like this?” Tony asks softly. Peter nods (wiki how told him to clean himself for fingering when he was fifteen, and he does it frequently now), then remembers that he’s hiding and steadies his nerves to speak aloud. 

“I d-do clean, but, no one’s ever, ever- um-” He mewls into the pillow when Tony _licks_ him, a long swipe of his tongue over Peter’s hole. 

Tony does it again. Just licking, over and over, slow, fat licks dripping saliva onto Peter’s rim. He drops his mouth over the entrance, sealing his lips and _sucking_ , and Peter cries out.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck fuck... hnnnggg-” Tony keeps sucking, lapping and hollowing his cheeks over Peter’s flower, loosening it with his tongue. 

It’s _weird_ , so strange to have something as slippery and wet and _intimate_ as a tongue touching him in such a secret, sensitive place. It does a good job of destroying any reservations Peter already didn’t have about boundaries, but he still feels self-conscious about having the older man’s tongue on him until Tony starts moaning. 

“Christ, baby, you’re so sweet, so soft down here. But you gotta relax. Just relax, Pete, I’ve got you,” the man whispers, placing filthy wet kisses. He kneads his handfuls, lighting up the heated muscle, but he does it gently, just enough to keep Peter writhing, overwhelmed, not trying to actually hurt him. 

Right, right. Relaxing. That’s something Peter should do. They can’t do this if he’s tense. 

He wills himself to calm down. Instinct wants him to hold the tension, to wiggle away from the strange new sensations, to soothe all of his nerves and escape the overwhelming feelings. But that’s not the point. That’s not what he wants, really. 

He wants to feel it. He wants it all to rage through him and ruin him, he wants to feel it even when it drives him insane.

Easier said (thought) than done. Peter counts his breaths, counts the seconds to breathe to. He inhales through his slightly uncovered nose and exhales into the pillow, forcing himself to become pliant, making himself relax. 

It’s even more difficult to tell if it’s actually working, but it must be, because Tony hums appreciatively, the vibration resonating against Peter’s hole, making him quiver. 

“That’s it, there you go. Let me in, sweetheart. Try not to fight me, just like that, yeah,” Tony says. He keeps licking, but points his tongue, pressing it in almost teasingly. Slowly, slowly letting Peter adjust to the feeling of it moving inside him. 

Tony’s treating him like he’s never been fucked before, like he’s never had anything inside him, and it makes Peter want to cry all over again. 

He’s so _gentle_.

Just when Peter’s starting to adjust to the the rhythm, the prodding followed by wet swipes outside his rim, Tony pushes his tongue inside as far as he can, filling Peter up with the malleable, wet slickness. The sound of it is sinful and so are sounds it elicits, Peter’s gasps and feminine moans, Tony’s depraved groan. 

“Shit-!” Peter rasps, squirming in place. Tony holds him firmly, hands sliding from his ass to his waist. His tongue slips out scarcely, then pushes back in, making Peter feel wet like he never has before, not deep inside but _dripping_. 

(He’s used lube, but this—maybe it’s because he’s not doing it. He’s not in control. Tony has all the control, god, Peter wants him to always have all the control.)

A long, wide lick runs from Peter’s perineum to past his entrance, fat and flat and Tony sighs so satisfied, a lewd breathy noise, hot air against Peter’s wet, already sizzling skin. The younger man groans into the pillow, muffling the desperate sound, squeezing the plush so tight he’s crushing it. 

“Fucking delicious, baby,” Tony says. The words are sound and serious and sexual all together, like Tony’s not even intending to dirty talk, like he just _means_ it. Peter writhes and exhales shakily. He’s nearing painfully hard now, no doubt staining Tony’s expensive pillowcase with oozing precome. 

One of the man’s hands comes to rest on the small of Peter’s back, pushing under the hoodie to feel the supple, milky skin there, and the other hand leaves his waist. Peter tries to breathe deep. He tries to stay relaxed but his heart rate is picking up again just at the implication of _more_. 

Something as wet as the man’s tongue but much, much colder touches Peter’s hole, and he jolts, flinching away from it. Tony keeps his one hand solidly on the younger’s back, pinning him to the bed so he doesn’t startle away, hushing him quietly. 

“Sh, shh, that’s it. I know, it’s cold, but it’ll feel nice, just give it a second.” Tony offers. He kisses a fiery cheek again. His finger—holy _shit—_ rubs faintly against Peter’s rim, making tiny circles there, just letting the younger get used to the cold, letting the lube warm up on him, before Tony starts to push it in. 

First things first: Tony Stark’s fingers are _way_ bigger than Peter’s.

Okay, probably not actually much bigger, but his one finger feels impossibly larger than one of Peter’s ever has.

Just up to the first knuckle already has Peter sweating in his hoodie, heaving breaths as he tries his hardest to remain relaxed. 

Tony’s tongue stretched him enough to handle the tip of one finger, easily, but having something more firm inside him is edging his ability not to clench down. He just needs it _in_ already, to get it over with, to stop teasing and testing his body. 

“Please, Tony, just-” he shudders as Tony twists his finger, curling the pad into Peter’s satin walls, “more, need more, I can’t-” 

“Ok, ok, I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Tony whispers kindly. And he does. He pushes his finger further in, pulls it out almost entirely, slowly but not tantalizingly so, inch by inch, back in and out again, repeating and going further inside Peter’s body, deeper every time until his entire finger is enveloped in the younger. 

_Full_. 

Peter feels _full_. He’s only ever worked up to three fingers, and even that thickness was never as long as Tony’s one digit. He’s never used any toys, never experimented with anything other than his own hands, so with the exception of the one time Harry fucked him in his freshman year—he’s never had anything that _deep_ before. 

“How you doing, Pete? Feels ok?” 

Tony’s voice is strained. Quiet, a little rough. Out of breath. He sounds near asthmatic, which is _insane_ , because _Peter_ is the one being prepped to get fucked. 

And _holy hell._ What a motivator. 

“Yeah, yes, I’m good, I’m good. C’mon Tony, please, I want more, want, want y-your-” he pauses, face flushing probably down to his chest, not wanting to outright say it. 

The message still gets across. Tony chuckles, and Peter _feels_ it where the man presses his lips to the smaller’s ass. His fingertips are like pressure points on Peter’s back and the digit inside him makes him seize up. Just feeling the intrusion confuses the hell out of his body. 

A conflict between the natural urge to fight against it and the _need_ to feel more of it, Tony’s voice, _‘Let me in, sweetheart. Try not to fight me,’_ in his head. 

“I know, baby, I know what you want. I’m gonna give it to you. But I’ve got to stretch you first.” The older man soothes. He kisses Peter’s skin again—will he even see the inevitable bruises? Or will they bloom and fade before he wakes up tomorrow morning?—and starts to pump the finger. 

It makes Peter whimper and cling to the pillow. He takes fistfuls of the down feathers encased in cotton, threatening to rip the fabric. He struggles to keep himself still, even with Tony’s heavy hand holding him in place, thumb making soft, mollifying circles on his lower back. Peter digs his knees into the bed to stop from crawling away from the sensations, out of his control, unpredictable and overwhelming his fired up senses, and the action unintentionally props his ass up even higher. 

Tony doesn’t mind or comment. He hums, comforting, and continues to press his lips gently to the blazing skin of Peter’s cheeks. His finger curls, wiggles around and twists, slowly helping the younger man’s walls adjust to the length inside, rubbing tension out of his supple body.

Then he strikes gold. A sudden flash of pleasure that makes Peter kick out, grateful that Tony is between his legs and not within range to be bucked at like a panicked colt. His back bows, thrusting his ass upwards even as he jumps forward, an embarrassing, feminine squeal escaping him.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he pants, swallowing the surplus of saliva that’s accumulating in his mouth. He flounders and Tony just hums once more, an incredibly pleased sound, intrigued, and presses again. 

It’s exploratory for a few seconds, as he maps out exactly where it is that he’s found the special bundle of nerves inside the younger man, but then he locates it again, memorizes the spot, how far in and what angle he needs to reach it.

Peter mewls and whines like he’s being tormented, thighs shaking, chest heaving. “T-Tony, Tony, that’s-” 

“That’s your sweet spot, yeah? Honestly thought I’d find it sooner. Might be losing my touch.” Tony finishes for him, pondering. 

“N-Not possible. Can c-conf-firm,” Peter mumbles—trying to retain some semblance to his regular self—then promptly stuffs his face into the pillow. Tony laughs lightly, quiet, the most beautiful sound in the world, and rubs at Peter’s prostate again, pressing on it. The sensation is different now than it’s ever been before. 

It’s out of Peter’s hands (literally) and he feels like he’s free falling. The pleasure is new, _full_ , a thick feeling, being pushed into his nerves like waves, but it isn’t just something red and bright. The pain from being struck is still resonating in him. Everything is alight. But the touches to his sensitive spots don’t burn or sting, they just feel so _full_. _Alive_. 

_Overwhelming_. 

Peter wants more of it. 

He moans miserable and filthy into a pillow that only helps to muffle so much. Tony chuckles and sighs, licking one of Peter’s cheeks, beside where his finger is sheathed inside the younger man. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m definitely going to abuse this,” he says. His tone is somewhere between amused and wistful, teetering on reverent, and it’s just not _fair_ how much genuine, wholesome affection he’s lathering his dirty talk in. 

After a few minutes (or, it _feels_ like a few minutes, too many minutes, actually, or not enough, why is he stopping??) of Tony using just the one digit inside him, teasing his prostate, Peter feels it slip out entirely. 

A moment later it returns, twice as thick, joined by a second finger. They’re both cold all over again, more wetness added (as if there wasn’t plenty already) from wherever Tony has lube. 

(Oh, Peter realizes. He didn’t even notice Tony grabbing lube, whenever he did. Did the man grab a condom, too? Are they even going to use one? Peter’s clean—he just had a full physical, actually, and none of his past partners have had anything. He knows Tony is, too. He hopes they don’t use one, actually. He doesn’t want to.)

The two fingers prod at Peter’s hole for a few seconds, _pet_ it, rub up and down with a little pressure, teasingly entering him just the littlest bit and then backing off before properly pushing in, stern and straight but malleable to Peter’s body.

It’s the same process as before. Tony eases in and out, slowly but steadily going deeper and deeper until his two fingers are comfortably situated inside the younger. Then he pulls them both out a small bit. Peter doesn’t have to wonder what the reason is as he feels the fingers start to curl, and then—

“F-Fu-uck, Tony-y,” he keens, long and gravely at the pleasure. Tony is relentless, pressing and pressing, rubbing back and forth, making tiny patterns within Peter’s slowly loosening walls. 

The pillow underneath his hips is going to be beyond repair soon, the way Peter is oozing precome, leaking steady, fat drops, smearing into the soft, soft fabric. He can’t help it. He can’t _stop_.

It’s as though the touches to his sweet spot are each pushing out gushes of pre and Peter is helpless. His muscles have gone weak, his body boneless and jittery, wracked with the pleasure that he has no idea how to process other than to let it overwhelm him.

“That’s it, baby, that pillow must feel so good on your cock, huh? Go on, rub off on it, yeah, just like that,” Tony says. Peter didn’t even realize his hips were stuttering, humping the pillow in aborted movements.

Now that the older man has drawn his attention to it, it’s all he can think about. 

With a pained, needy moan, Peter starts to thrust against the pillow. Tony moves with him. He retreats faster than Peter does so that the younger chases the fingers, then pushes forward faster than Peter can grind down, so he’s pressing against the smaller man’s prostate as Peter rubs off on the pillow. 

It drives him crazy. Makes Peter ache with need and burn not just where his skin had been hit and his hair tugged but all over. It gets him so lost in the foggy desperation and pleasure up in his head, the sweet, sticky delectation that’s hot in his veins, that he doesn’t really register Tony’s fingers slipping out. 

He barely notices when the two become three upon re-entry. As wound up as he is, the distraction of getting off against the pillow makes it easier for Tony to work him open with the three digits.

“T-Tony, Tony I’m gonna-”

“Go on, Pete. You can do it. Come on, wanna see you let go again,” Tony moans. He stops pumping his fingers and just presses, directing all of his attention into grinding the pads into Peter’s prostate. 

Peter chokes on air, thrusting fast against the plush, tears wetting the pillow that he still has his face hidden in. He’s on _fire_ under the sweatshirt and chases his release wantonly. 

He gets it when Tony bites him, blunt teeth on his bright red ass. 

The pleasure makes technicolor spots appear behind his tightly closed eyelids, and his cry is cut off, a silent scream when he comes. He stumbles through his orgasm, still stuttering forward as he messily rides out the high, Tony milking his sweet spot through it. Peter colors the pillow under him in pearly white, his dick feeling rubbed raw by the time he slumps to a stop, exhausted and keyed up at once. 

Almost cruelly, Tony overstimulates him once it’s over, not pausing the way he pets Peter’s prostate. He only lets up when Peter sobs, a single moment off from scrambling to escape the sensations. 

“Shh, shh, ok, I’m sorry sweetheart, alright, you’re ok,” Tony whispers. He cautiously removes his fingers entirely, “I’m done now, I’m sorry, you’re just so fucking pretty when you whine and squirm like that.” 

Peter swallows thickly and is acutely aware that he’s drooling on the pillow. He turns his face for fresh air, cold and crisp after being stuffed up and breathing mostly through cotton. It helps clear his head, airing out the dizzy, floaty feeling and grounding him. 

The hand on his back is joined by a second, dry (Tony must’ve wiped off the lube on the blanket), both sliding up his hot, perspiring skin. The warm palms drag his hoodie with them and push it up until the sweatshirt is bunched at his shoulders.

While Peter catches his breath, weakly trying to prop himself up, sit straight, look at Tony, the older man helps him out of the top entirely.

Too busy coming down from his orgasm to notice at first, Peter realizes with a start a few moments later that he’s naked, now. All the way. 

Not as if Tony isn’t (very) personally acquainted with his ass already; not as if he’s already come twice, but still. The realization shakes him a bit. 

It also makes him feel weirdly confident. 

(Listen. He knows he’s in good shape. If not for the ridiculous exercise routine—thanks, Steve “One more lap! One more round! One more and then we hit the showers!” Rogers—then thanks to his crazy spider bite metabolism and strength. Even if he hasn’t been eating enough lately, probably dropping a few too many pounds—his physique is nothing to laugh about.)

More than what he’s pretty sure is attractive about himself, he knows that Tony likes it. Likes _him_. He knows Tony is interested and appreciative and won’t stop being either of those things ~~unless Peter royally fucks up, but don’t think about that~~. 

So he’s nervous. The surfacing meekness skyrockets, and he wishes he had a literal shell to crawl into and hide in. But he’s also feeling oddly… brave?

He’s scared to let Tony see all of him. It’s _Tony Stark_ for crying out loud, the man is a genius, a billionaire, _Iron Man_ , he’s slept with so many people, and he’s so _good_ at sex that his sex tapes are _purchasable_ in HD with “ _bonus features”_. He is one of the kindest, smartest, and most incredible people on the planet—and easily one of the best men that Peter has ever met. 

And Peter is just. 

Peter.

But when his hoodie is pulled off, and Tony leaves the spot between his legs only to help Peter flip easily onto his back, the soiled pillows tossed away and forgotten—when Tony sits between Peter’s indecently spread thighs and looks down on the younger man as he unfastens his belt and unzips his pants, slowly undressing himself, _distracted_ as he soaks in the view of Peter naked below him—when Tony looks so reverent and amazed and _adoring—_

Peter feels the fear settle. It doesn’t die, exactly, but it settles, low and far away. The shyness remains. If only slightly, staining his face pink and making him unsure about where to put his arms when he kind of wants to hug himself, but the fear settles and goes to sleep. 

Left behind is Peter. A little bashful, a little nervous. A little empowered, honestly, by how completely smitten Tony looks. A lot ready. 

So, _so_ fucking ready.

His heart doesn’t ache anymore but he wants his legs to, wants his back and his thighs and his middle to throb with physical reminder of what hasn’t happened yet for every second come tomorrow. 

“You’re gorgeous, Peter.” Tony says. The finality is there again. Slightly guilty and heavily amazed and dead serious. (Peter cannot _believe_ that tone is for _him_.)

The older man pushes his pants down to his knees and leans over Peter, bracing himself on one arm while the other assists in kicking off the last of his clothing, dropping his mouth and kissing Peter again. 

This one is less passionate, less wet and frantic than most of the others. This is something... romantic.

Peter likes it a lot. 

A content sigh is breathed into his mouth from Tony’s and he returns it, kissing gently. He tries to frame ( _cherish)_ the older man’s lips the way Tony does his.

When they part, Peter finally gets the chance to look down. To see and to study what he’s felt earlier. 

Holy _shit_. 

Holy fucking _shit_. 

Tony is _hung._

“That’s.. there’s no way that will fit inside me,” Peter breathes. Tony laughs, genuine and a bit loud in close proximity. He pecks Peter’s nose, then shifts, situating, sitting up to kneel regularly between the younger man’s thighs. 

“It’ll fit, baby,” his grin is wolfish. He slides his hands from Peter’s calves to the backs of his legs, behind his knees and up to just under the swell of his ass. Tony looks down, then, admiring Peter’s dick as it slowly swells back to life. 

(Coming too easily and too many times has been a particular issue Peter has grappled with in the past. Now, it seems like Tony is enjoying the multiple orgasms more than Peter is.)

Arousal is difficult to control when in the presence of a naked Tony Stark that can’t keep his hands to himself. What is Peter supposed to do? Not get hard again after coming ridiculously intensely twice already? Unrealistic. 

“So pretty…” Tony murmurs, one hand gliding from Peter’s swollen, bruised cheeks to drift over towards his dick. It’s pink, vibrant and kind of dark but pale and gleaming with come at the tip. Peter’s not small, really, but he’s pretty sure (if google has accurate stats) that he’s a bit below average. He’s nowhere near as long or thick as Tony is, that’s for sure. 

Just the light touch of the tip of Tony’s first finger against the head of Peter’s length is a rough sensation. Not quite pain but not simple pleasure. His cock feels used, overworked, too sensitive, and even gentle is too much. He flinches away but it only earns a smug half smirk from the older man. 

“Sensitive?” Tony prompts. He wets his lips and bites the inside of his cheek, Peter can see the divot and the motion, trying to suppress a too-pleased grin. The younger man is wholly incapable of being irritated about that. 

“Mhm,” he nods. He doesn’t care how childish it makes him seem—Tony is studying his cock, touching it so lightly where he’s overstimulated and making him twitch and jolt—Peter wraps his arms over his chest, wrists crossed kittywampus and hands in loose fists above his collar bones and sternum. 

He’s expecting Tony to ignore the display of timidness as he has with the other gestures. But the man pauses, looking up and leaving Peter’s cock alone. 

Then Peter’s expecting a comment, something, but instead, Tony just watches him, his arms and his face, while he leans back. He lifts Peter’s hips and the younger gets the message, raising them, so that Tony can grab his ridiculously big cock and coat it in lube, lining up the head with Peter’s hole. 

(How it’s possible to actually stretch enough for that girth, Peter doesn’t fucking know.)

Tony watches what he’s doing, but keeps looking up at Peter.

“Ready?”

Peter swallows, then nods. He’s so ready. _So_ fucking ready. 

Tony starts to push in, and Peter gasps, chest rising and falling quickly as his breathing and heart rate both jump. He tenses up, knowing he shouldn’t, but he can’t stop. He tightens his arms over himself and closes his eyes tight, biting his bottom lip, holding back any sounds other than his panicking rabbit paced breathing. 

The head is thick and it burns, a good stretch, new and unnerving but satisfying. Peter pushes his head back against the pillow, a whimper escaping as the thickness intrudes. Tony moves, shifts, but Peter keeps his eyes shut, up until the man’s hands wrap around his wrists. 

Whiskey brown eyes spring open to stare into chocolate colored irises, pupils blown huge. Slowly, gently, giving Peter every opportunity to protest, Tony pries his arms away from his chest. The man is easing in, centimeter by centimeter, steadily, _slowly_ , as he guides Peter by the wrists until he pins the younger’s hands beside his head. 

Peter feels torn open, suddenly. Exposed. Bared naked not just physically but emotionally. 

_He thought Tony_ hated _him. He thought Tony wanted him_ gone _._

And now here the man is, staring desperately, lovingly down at him, carefully working his cock inside Peter’s body, breaking the heated eye contact only to drop down and kiss him like he’s the sweetest thing in the world, as though this was their meticulously planned romantic getaway, with candles and a phonograph and rose petals scattered across the bed. 

Tony holds his wrists down, holds him open and slides into him, filling him up, filling Peter with _him_ , filling in all the gaps and the crevices and the cracks caused from all the times Peter tried desperately to hold himself together despite being in pieces.

A sob forces its way out of Peter’s chest, punching through his closed up throat and making him cry against Tony’s mouth. 

The older man doesn’t retreat, doesn’t startle away like he wasn’t expecting it.

_(He was_.)

“I know,” Tony whispers. He kisses the corners of Peter’s lips and presses their foreheads together. 

“I know. _I’m so sorry, baby_.”

Peter sobs again. The older man bottoms out, surrounded completely by Peter, buried inside him. A seed planted where it will always flower and never die. Maybe the roots will kill the fear for good.

~~The severed connection; restored.~~

He wraps his legs around Tony’s waist and rolls his hips even as he cries, even as he stops the tremors from wracking through him but can’t stop the tears, salt streaming down his face. Tony thrusts forward. He’s all the way in, no way to move deeper, and so it rocks them both, sealing them together, friction in the most intimate places. 

“I love you,” Peter whispers. His voice breaks anyways. “I mean it. I love you.” 

  
“I know you do, Peter. I love you, too. I love you so much,” Tony says. He takes his forehead away from Peter’s and kisses him again. It’s less soft and sound, this time. Not some frantic desire to prove anything, not something sweet and comforting. 

It’s just raw. Wet lips and need and pouring his heart out into Peter’s mouth. The younger accepts it happily, desperately, licking into Tony as the older man continues to rock them back and forth, not pulling out enough for a proper thrust, just letting them oscillate, locked together. 

They kiss and they kiss and they _kiss_ , and Peter starts to grind up against Tony’s stomach, his cock recovered from the overstimulation and ready for more, needing more. He’s smearing precome onto Tony’s toned middle but neither of them care or mind. Peter finally gives himself the air to moan—not in desperation or emotional peak, but pure pleasure again—and it’s like a switch flips, Tony pulls almost all the way out and snaps back in. 

It’s not rough. No, Harry had fucked him rough (or at least, fast and messy). It’s not harsh like that. Not the pain and fury that went into spanking him. But it’s forceful and wonderful and as Tony is sliding smoothly back in, he rubs Peter’s sweet spot, and then his waist meets Peter’s and with Peter’s legs wrapped around Tony’s waist, the angle makes Tony’s hips hit Peter’s still burning ass, and—

Peter moans like it would kill him not to. 

“God, yes, please,” he pants. Tony obliges him, smile pressed against Peter’s cheek as he thrusts again. Not rough. Not harsh. Just forceful, _determined_ , practiced and skillful and _purposeful_.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Pete, you feel so good, so so good, baby,” Tony babbles. He drops his mouth to the crook of Peter’s neck and finds the bite mark he’d left there earlier. Laps at it, then sucks, breaking tiny blood vessels not quite gently and turning it into a proper hickey. A sweet purple bruise. 

A claiming mark. (As if he hasn’t claimed Peter in every way already.)

The thrusts are constant and precise, rubbing Peter’s prostate _deliciously_ and filling him up perfectly every time, the stretch easing as he adjusts completely but the delectable burn never ceasing, thanks to the ass beating prior. 

It’s heaven in sin and Peter is ascending. His body and mind unlinking again, the connection only in how good he feels. But he wants _more_ of it. He knows damn well that no matter how incredible Tony’s cock massaging his sweet spot feels, he can’t come from that, not at this pace. (Well, probably not.)

“Come on, come on, Tony, I’m not gonna break, you can go faster,” Peter pleads. Just a bit more. Tony laughs, a pleased huff, and he speeds up a little, but not much. Peter groans at the antics, arching his back to stroke his chest and dick against Tony’s torso, grinding back down on the man’s thrust. 

His nipples catch on Tony’s chest hair and he shudders, gasping, repeating the action. His back becomes a constant, beautiful bow as he moves, rubbing off against the solid body above him. 

“You like that too, huh? Go on, Petey, keep going. Make yourself feel good, just like that.” Tony says, a growl into Peter’s neck. He bites down again, higher up, sucking another dark bruise, sending a buzzing wave of sensation through the younger man. 

Peter is defenseless. He can’t say no. Not even in a playful, bratty way. He doesn’t _want_ to refuse anything Tony offers. So he takes. He pushes his chest just close enough so that the sensitive pink buds drag along Tony’s pecks, scraping scarred skin and coarse hair and smooth, silky flesh, a whirlwind of pleasure. 

His dick pulses as it slides over the soft ridges of Tony’s toned stomach. His thighs and calves are empty, light, quivering, ready to float away from his body while the heavy pressure in his stomach sinks the rest, everything in a blissful mess of pleasure from the way Tony’s length within him massages his body from the inside out. 

The younger man trembles almost violently. He’s crying, but not because of the overwhelming emotions anymore. He’s on fire, alive, drowning in Tony. The earthy, cool scent of the man’s cologne and the sweat from the heat of sex and whatever herbal shampoo he uses fill up Peter’s head. 

Fog and swirling mist and bubbling foam, soft and sweet and relentless, elation and craze take over his mind. Flower petals bloom and bloom and _bloom._ Cyclamen and lotus and freesias, yellow and pink and orange and purple, blocking out his vision, blocking out his thoughts, shutting out everything but the staggering, devastating feeling of _Tony_.

“I’ve thought about this so much, sweetheart, wanted this so badly, and you’re so-” Tony cuts himself off with a groan when Peter clenches down, the man rocking slowly into him before resuming his pace, “-so perfect, god, people say I’m creative but my imagination can’t compare, baby, you’re _everything_ , and I’m not going to last long.”

Peter laughs. He’s startled by the sound, but there’s so much swirling around inside him, boiling and popping, and the pure joy at hearing Tony talk about him so reverently beats out everything else for a moment. 

“I already came twice,” he rasps, not expecting himself to be so breathless but unable to mind. “And if you keep- keep doing that, I’m gonna come again. You don’t ha- _have_ to last long.”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to chuckle, out of air. He licks a long stripe from Peter’s collar bones to his jaw. “Oh, Pete,” he moans, planting wet kisses all over Peter’s face, squeezing his wrists. “What did I do to deserve you?” He mouths at Peter’s adam’s apple, kissing up his chin.

“I want you to come again. I want to see your face when you do, this time. Come on, let’s get there, yeah? Let me get you there, one more time.” 

Peter just nods as fast as he can. _God_ yes.

“ _Please_.”

Tony pulls almost all the way out again, so only his thick tip is stretching Peter’s rim, then slams back in. Still not too rough, but harder, and he does it again, faster. He aims for Peter’s prostate, nailing it as he slides in and dragging his head against it when he pulls out. 

The thrusts are long and full and shake them both, and Peter can’t hold back the sinful, licentious moans. He whines when Tony pulls out, craving the feeling of the older man’s cock inside him, and groans, gasping whimpers when Tony pushes back in, gliding wetly inside him, the ever moving stretch, caressing his velvety walls. 

It feels like Tony is fondling him from the inside out, the same kind of satisfaction as an itch finally being scratched. It’s a soothing burn, hot, the lingering pain taking every ounce of pleasure and rolling it in electricity before it pools in Peter’s groin. 

The older man pushes down on him, so Peter is forced to lay nearly flat and almost still—save for the uncontrollable writhing—as Tony rubs against him, taking over what Peter had been trying to do, tormenting his nipples and cock with sensations. The combination of indulgence, gratification, and the restraint, able only to lay there and _take it_ , gets Peter close embarrassingly fast. 

But he needs a little more. 

And he knows what it is. 

He’s shaking as he tries to pull his wrists free, slowly increasing the strength until Tony lets go, lets him do what he needs to do. The older man is mostly expecting the smaller to wrap his arms around him and cling. 

Instead, Peter grabs Tony’s hands in return. 

Tony pulls away from where he was sucking his latest hickey, love bites now littering Peter’s neck and shoulders, looking up with hooded eyes and watching. Peter looks at him, panting for breath, eyes wide and everything on the table as he guides the first hand towards the top of his head. 

Tony gets it. 

He understands. 

The older man offers a soft, faint smile, pecking Peter on the lips as he takes over. He reaches up, sliding under Peter’s head, cupping his nape and crawling up until he can take a fistful of coffee colored curls at the younger man’s crown. He pulls back, making Peter tip his head up and moan, long and delicate and high and needy. 

A hot mouth meets the underside of Peter’s chin and he whines, mind on fire, burning, singing in felicity as the grip is just _perfect_ , not too much, never too harsh, but _enough_ , exactly the right amount of pain to cut out everything else except the pleasure.

There’s still more, though.  
  


One thing left. Peter doesn’t even know if this is right, but it feels right, he thinks it will be. He knows that it will be, so long as Tony’s doing it to him. 

He takes Tony’s other wrist. The older man braces himself, holds his body up with the forearm of the hand in Peter’s hair and lets the younger move his second hand. He watches again, this time traces of confusion on his face. Whatever Peter is about to do will be new to him. To them, at least. 

Peter swallows hard. A loud gulp that Tony can surely hear. Ironic, even, as he leads Tony’s hand up, his own framing the older man’s larger palm and fingers, spreading his hand out, splayed, open—

Placing it on his neck. 

Tony freezes. And then, a moment later:

Tony _understands_.

The hand tightens, he starts to squeeze and then lets Peter show him how hard, lets Peter tighten his hand until it’s perfect, until Peter’s brain checks out entirely. Until there’s nothing but radio static and Tony, nothing but the erogenous intimacy and ecstasy.

Peter releases Tony’s hand and it stays put, the perfect pressure that has the younger seeing stars. 

He starts to thrust again. Tony fucks him, steadfast and dedicated and tenacious, firm, _sublime_ , hips burning Peter’s ass and cock filling him like it’s never happened before, making Peter feel like he’s never felt pleasure at all until now. He rubs down, chest to chest, dragging taut nubs across solid muscle, grinding Peter’s cock into the dips and curves of his abdomen. Peter's hair stings, the divider between the rest of the world and this moment, these feelings. 

It’s euphoric, obscene, and by the pained groan, the stuttering hips, Tony feels it too. 

The younger man thinks, somehow, that nothing could possibly be better than this. This is it. This is the acme, the crown. The best he’ll ever feel in his fucking _life_. 

Then Tony squeezes just a little tighter and kisses him.

Peter comes _hard_.

All the pressure and the buzzing sensations, the heat, the burning and the fire and the electric rhapsody that were building and building, emptying out his body until he felt light as a feather, trembling as the only thing tethering him to the ground was Tony, filling up his stomach and his chest with boiling sexual energy—it all _erupts_.

The rapture tears him apart. He cries out, not a scream or silent call like before, but a long, effeminate, erotic, beautiful cry. Tony doesn’t try to escape it, keeps his lips pressed to the corner of Peter’s mouth, tongue on saliva damp skin, like he’s _tasting_ the sound as it leaves Peter’s body. Exhilaration bursts out the seams of the younger’s being. He paints the scarce space between his and Tony’s torsos in milky white, his cock blazing as every ounce of control evaporates into bliss. 

Just as the climax teeters towards the downhill slide, Peter loses himself. He doesn’t pass out, entirely, but every one of his senses goes offline and he might as well have fallen unconscious, aware of what’s happening only by the most primitive part of his living brain. The flowers graciously destroyed everything else, so all he’s left with is simple and sweet, soft despite how utterly _wrecked_ he is.

When he comes back more, able to more or less process what’s going on, Tony’s hips are stumbling, his rhythm faltering, breaking, desperate gasps leaving his mouth, fanning over Peter’s cheek as he pants, chasing his own release. 

The grip on his hair is gone. Though the hand on his throat is still there, it’s loose, no longer squeezing. Peter can barely even register overstimulation beyond how completely content he is to have Tony’s warm body still so close to his.

What seems like only moments before the more becomes too much, Tony comes. He pushes completely into the smaller man, tiny, aborted thrusts milking the climax from himself, letting Peter’s silky, clenching body take it all, draw it out from him. He moans, and even that sound breaks, gravely and low to something soft, pleased and ruined and flawless. 

Then he drops. Probably close to all of his weight, quickly leaning off to the side but dragging Peter with him, releasing the younger’s throat to wrap around his lissome body, tugging him close. One of Peter’s legs falls off the man’s waist and rests, tangled with Tony’s two while the other remains thrown over his hips. 

They breathe. 

And wow, Tony is warm. Hot. Radiating heat, really. It’s good, though. Peter’s sweaty and probably a furnace himself but it feels good to share the warmth. Feels like they’re melting together. 

Neither really wants to move, arms wrapped around each other, sweat and and lube cooling and crying on their bodies and the sheets. So they don’t. For a few minutes, they lay there together, catching their breath, processing, basking in the warmth and the afterglow. 

Then Tony kisses Peter’s forehead, starts rubbing small patterns on his bare back. 

“We could clean up, before we fall asleep.” He whispers. It’s the first coherent sentence other than moaned praise that he’s said since telling Peter he wanted to watch him come. 

(Peter supposes his eyes were closed, so he doesn’t know if Tony watched or not. He finds, quite pleasantly, that he doesn’t mind the idea of the other man having seen. Peter is safe with him.)

“Mhm..” The younger hums. He feels a smile pressed against his temple, followed by another light peck. 

Tony has to move first, pulling carefully out (the squelch is… not the best thing in the world) and helping Peter sit up. They crawl off the bed, walking plastered to each other’s sides to the master bathroom just a door away. 

The shower is fucking _massive_ (and Peter thought his bathroom was over the top) and he enjoys himself in playing with the many faucets and knobs, picking out a perfect temperature and pressure. 

Both have already showered earlier that day, so they don’t need to bathe entirely. Just rinsing, and using some of Tony’s body wash to clean away the remnants. 

Or, at least, the liquid remnants. 

Hot water burns his ass, but Peter adjusts quickly, finding comfort in the heat, even. He leans against Tony and the older man keeps his arms wrapped around the smaller. Just touching. Washing, kissing every so often. 

Tony runs his fingers through Peter’s hair and massages his scalp where he pulled. Not the quick soothing touches in between tugs from earlier in the evening, but a deep, comforting, quelling thing. His gentle fingers smooth sex-mussed curls and tangles and carefully rub soft feeling back into Peter’s head, easing his senses down from their hyper-active state.

Easing Peter back to himself. 

By the end of the shower, he feels mostly reconnected to his body and mostly present. Coherent, if still a little dazed and loopy with content. 

It’s not until Tony has tossed off the soiled top cover and pillows (there are plenty of other blankets and pillows left) and drawn Peter close, pulling him under the sheets and wrapped himself around the younger man, coaxed Peter (not much convincing needed) into cuddling close—that Peter realizes he didn’t even consider going back to his own room. 

He knows he doesn’t need to. 

The shyness is mostly asleep (though there’s something a bit timid and a lot amazed at where he is, what he’s done and who he’s with) and the fear—underground. Tangled in the roots of the flowers, pacified. Stilled. 

“I’m sorry. I know you’re going to tell me not to be, and then you’ll try to apologize even though it’s not your fault either, but I’m sorry, Peter. For ever making you think there was something, anything wrong with you. You’re perfect.” Tony’s voice is quiet. Placid. 

That storm has passed, Peter thinks. The drizzle might last a while, but he doesn’t feel emotions he can’t control start to suffocate him. He just feels calm.

“You’re right, I am going to tell you not to be sorry. _You’re_ perfect.”

Tony sighs, it might’ve been a self deprecating laugh if he wasn’t so tired.

(Peter woke up from a miniature coma, like, eight hours ago, and he’s ready to sleep again.)

(He can fix his sleep schedule tomorrow.)

“I’m a mess, baby.” 

Peter smiles at the pet name. He likes the way it sounds coming from the man he’s cuddled against. 

“My mess.” And then, with more curiosity and, fine, ok, some nervousness, “Is this… um, was this a, just, just a tonight thing? Or-”

“It doesn’t have to be." Tony answers quickly. "It can be, if you want it to be it can be. God, I’m never going to make you stick around with this train wreck, but if you want it to be more than a tonight thing. It can be.” 

Peter hears the ‘I love you’s echoing in his head. 

“.... in the.. boyfriend way?” Juvenile, maybe. His tone is a little too hopeful, but he supposes he’s kind of programmed to expect disappointment. Maybe Tony will change that. The older man snorts at the question, and Peter thinks, yeah, Tony just might. 

“Yes, baby. In the boyfriend way, if that’s what you want. Any way you want, label or not. Whatever you want. Anything. Everything. I’ll give you everything, Peter.” His voice goes quiet again, and he pulls the smaller man a little closer, arms around his shoulders and waist a little bit tighter. Peter rests his head on Tony’s chest, ignoring the luxury pillow. 

He listens, and then he knows for sure, beyond a reasonable doubt. It is Tony’s heartbeat he hears during the blackout protocol. It makes his heart feel whole. He hums.

“Just want you,” Peter whispers. Gentle fingers run softly through his hair, and he feels like he could sleep for another twenty hours after this. “I don’t need everything.

Just a little bit. Just enough.” 

  
  
  


* * *

Bonus:

  
  


“Bet you never imagined using the Iron Man suit like that, huh?”

Tony smirks. “To be fair, no. But, now that you mention it… I could make some other. _Adjustments_.”

“ _Tony_.”

“I’m just sayin’. It’s a very versatile piece of machinery.” 

“You’re terrible,” Peter giggles. Tony just grins, kissing the top of the younger’s damp, messy hair. 

“You love me.” 

“Yeah, I do.”

Tony sighs, breathing it in. Soaking it up. The cyclamen begin to bloom brand new.

“I love you, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play a game called: how many times do I use the word "perfect" in just this chapter? answer: too many lol  
> fun fact: “mine” and “beautiful” (the og, not ft. Camila) by bazzi gave me feelings for this fic. 
> 
> thanks for reading babes, I hope you liked it! <3 <3 <3
> 
> my tumblr, if you fancy: bitter-lemon-water


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